


A Marriage of Minds

by Carice



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-28
Updated: 2017-06-04
Packaged: 2018-10-12 02:06:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 23,530
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10479684
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Carice/pseuds/Carice
Summary: I loved 'The Abominable Bride' and our Victorian Holmes and Hooper, so decided to allow myself a little carrying on of the story for Molly. It interested me to think about how things would be for her once she had 'outed' herself to Holmes and the Watsons, as a woman. I guess this is AU because in my story it's genuinely Victorian and not a figment of modern Sherlock's mind. In terms of Molly's role at Bart's as a woman, female doctors, etc. I have not worried too much about period detail because if Moffatt/Gatiss can play around with the timing of the Suffragette movement for dramatic purposes, then I reckon I can be a bit cavalier with some details too.





	1. An abominable idea

Sherlock Holmes looked at Molly Hooper for one long second, and moved toward her, as he enjoined his companions to 'look around you - this room is full of brides....'

For her part, Molly cursed her soft heart where Holmes was concerned, but remained stoic, simply looking at him and not responding. Damn her partiality for this man! She had worked so very hard to create herself a niche in medicine, to qualify as a doctor, to work and be respected as one of the best Pathologists in London. Years ago now, she had searched her soul long and hard and she had come to the conclusion that her previous life, her very femininity, would be boxed up and put away. Thus, 'Hooper' was born out of her sheer determination not to settle for the circumscribed life that awaited her as a woman. And the creation of Hooper had worked well. It was incredible how blind people were - they saw what they expected to see, and when they looked at Dr Hooper in the Morgue, they simply saw a man. 

Well, nearly everyone saw that. For some reason John Watson had managed to look past her disguise, and although Molly had remained staunch against his pointed comment - "amazing what one has to do to get ahead in a man's world", the solid stone floor of the morgue had seemed to be lurching under her feet. Molly had felt after that meeting, that it was even more important that she remain as, if not more, aloof from interacting with Sherlock Holmes and Dr Watson, the better to avoid any possible risk of exposure for her deception. Her manner with those gentlemen had become if it were possible, even harsher and more dismissive. 

Molly had enough insight to admit to herself that her manner toward Holmes was not simply a means of protecting her assumed identity and role at the Morgue. Her harsh manner came naturally because it came from a place of internal anguish. Never once in her previous life before she became 'Hooper', when she was still Molly, did a man truly disturb her peace of mind. She had seen handsome men and could appreciate a little flattery or flirtation as much as any woman would, but no one had been able to get into her heart. It was one of the main reasons that she decided to throw caution to the wind and disguise herself to train in medicine - it had made the choice simple. Molly knew that, if she married, she would belong to her husband, body, soul, and all her possessions. She would be expected to give herself over to living HIS life, bearing children as they came along. He would have rights over her body. Conjugal rights - all rights. Any chance to use her own faculties, to do something other than live in the domestic sphere, would be gone, subsumed into the life of a man. And Molly had realised that there was no man for whom she was willing to make the exchange. She would far rather create a new life for herself. 

Molly had realised that she, more than most, had the opportunity to follow through with this possibly quite mad dream. Her parents were both dead, and she had been living in the country - in the middle of nowhere, as it felt, on the downs in Sussex - with her aunt, her mother's only sibling. When that good sweet lady died, Molly was left a small competency and the cottage. The money was not a fortune by any means whatsoever, but it was enough, and slowly but inexorably she took the steps necessary to gain first her place on a medicine degree, and thence to her current status as a well-respected pathologist. Molly had learned that, in order to protect herself from too much scrutiny, a forbidding and harsh way of interacting with others was the best way to keep all at a distance. 

So her extremely successful and hard won training had led her to St Bartholomew's Hospital in London. Molly had been so delighted to win the post. It was the culmination of, and vindication for, her choices in life. 

On the very first day of her tenure at St Bartholomew's, Molly had met Inspector Lestrade of Scotland Yard. He was a pleasant enough man, she thought, and conveniently blind when it came to her deception (as were most men, policemen included, she had thought with a small but satisfied smile). Within a week however, he had returned, accompanied by Sherlock Holmes. Molly had been leaning over, writing some notes, when the gentlemen entered. Lestrade made the introductions quickly, and Holmes gave her a curt, uninterested nod before turning his attention to the corpse they had come to see. Molly was, meanwhile, at that point, having a life defining moment which was taking the very ground from under her. Holmes was tall, his slicked back hair dark, his face, to her, seemed supernaturally beautiful. His pupils were huge in the gloom of the morgue, but she could see despite this, that his eyes were the most incredible sea green, and his lips...her eyes settled on them and couldn't seem to move - sensuous, generous lips. His frame was tall, lean, his shoulders broad...but more than just the physical look of him, something about this man's very existence went straight to Molly's heart and soul. She seemed to recognise him although they'd never met, and felt a need to touch him, although she had no reason to, nor any conception of what kind of man he was. Molly Hooper did the only thing she could do. The thing that life had taught her was the most important thing she could do - she protected herself. Her manner toward Holmes was, and had remained, as cold, aloof and off putting as it was possible to be. 

As she became more familiar with Holmes, both personally and through Dr Watsons' regular stories in the Strand Magazine (which Molly devoured as soon as she could get her hands on them, and would then hide under her bed, feeling disgust at herself for her weakness) Molly became further convinced that she must remain opposed to Holmes's regular attendance at the Morgue. He must never get chance or reason to turn his incredibly sharp eyes upon her. At present, he saw her almost as part of the furniture or facilities of the Morgue, and that was how it should be, Molly knew, to give her the best chance of remaining unexposed. Yet she was burning with feelings she couldn't understand, let alone explain, for this man. She found that she was capable of logically knowing she was right to speak to him harshly, rudely almost - yet at the same time, feeling her heart melting at the sight of him and wanting him to know her, to see her, body and soul. Wanting not to be treated as part of the furniture but wanting to be important to him. 

And all this had brought her to that moment just now. Hearing Holmes's explanation and deductions around her sisterhood, her group of women – the ‘abominable brides’ as Dr Watson would soon term them in his writings. The respect and understanding in his voice, his determination that life was treating the whole of her sex unfairly..."not allowed so much as a vote"....had thrilled her and sent adrenaline coursing through her entire body. She had stepped out from the shadows and spoken to Holmes as herself, as Molly Hooper. He had looked down at her. His look was intense and profound, as if in that short moment his brilliant brain was working at speed, was seeing and considering how he – he! – had missed what was right in front of his nose, and not only that but also seeing just what this small, seemingly frail person had managed to achieve by becoming Dr Hooper. 

Slowly, quietly, in his deep voice, he had simply said "Hooper". 

Ever so slightly defiantly, Molly had replied "Holmes"....In her gown, as Molly Hooper, society would have expected her to make a small curtsey and call him 'Mr Holmes'. It was the most subtle of challenges to him. Yes, everything had changed, but would he have the capability to continue to treat her with respect as a professional doctor, or were his words about the importance of women and the ill treatment they had received at the hands of men, simply words and not from his heart?

And so, when Holmes now looked at her for a lingering moment, and stood shoulder to shoulder with her as he stated the room was ‘full of brides’…..Molly was outwardly calm, but inwardly cursing her betraying heart and body. Just by those words, by being so damn close to her, he could cause her to feel so much that she had spent so long suppressing.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The meeting is breaking up, the women are leaving, and Molly finds herself getting to know Mary Watson a little, on the way to 221b Baker Street, where the friends old and new have much to discuss....

It was Mrs Watson who took charge, as the group of ladies began to disperse following Holmes’s deductions. She came forward, smiling warmly at Molly and stretching out her arm to take Molly’s small hand. Instantly Molly realised that, of course, Dr Watson would have shared with his wife his own deduction regarding the pathologist at Barts. Molly took in Mrs Watson’s clothes – her divided skirts, the subtle but noticeable brooch in the purple, green and white of the Suffragist movement. She approved, and she smiled widely at Mrs Watson. 

“Dr Hooper, I am so very pleased to meet you” Mrs Watson was saying.” And to be able to congratulate you on your work at Bart’s. My husband speaks highly of you”. She was leading Molly out through the labyrinthine underbelly of the building, the way that she, her husband and Holmes had entered. In her peripheral vision, Molly was aware that Dr Watson and Sherlock Holmes were simply following them out, not speaking.

Molly smiled wanly and said “Thank-you, Mrs Watson –“

“Mary, please! I can’t abide formality, and I just know we are going to be such good friends!”

“Mary – then you must call me Molly”. 

Behind her, Holmes had stopped. Beside him, Watson looked questioningly at him. “Holmes?” There was a quick, loud clearing of the throat by Holmes and the gentlemen continued to follow. 

Molly continued talking to Mary as they came out into the cold night air. 

“I doubt there is now much on which to congratulate me, Mary. I am exposed now. Mr Holmes knows I am a woman and I fear I will be asked to leave Bart’s. Even if they accepted a female pathologist – which they won’t – I will be struck off for my deceit!” Molly’s emotions were all over the place now, bubbling up and unable to be kept in. She tried so hard, pressing her lips together, but she couldn’t stifle a sob, and buried her face in her hands. What had possessed her to expose her true identity in front of these people? After all she’d worked for!

Mary gently led her to the side of a carriage. Molly thought it must be how Mr Holmes and the Watsons had arrived. Before she knew it, Mary was turning back to the two gentlemen and stating that they simply must take Dr Hooper with them, and was bundling Molly in kindly, and sitting down beside her, holding one of her hands.   
Mr Holmes and Dr Watson followed, and Molly once again became aware of just what a powerful physical effect that Mr Holmes’ presence had upon her – perhaps it was not just that, but all the pent up emotion, too – but she was trembling like a leaf as soon as she saw him opposite her, such a large, male, dark presence. 

“Now Molly” Mary was saying, “Hold your nerve. Steady the ship. I know Mr Holmes, and I know that he would never expose you for a little thing like being a woman. Would you, Mr Holmes?” She challenged him in that direct, but sweetly smiling way that she had. 

Holmes raked his eyes over Molly, unsmiling. 

“My life is cerebral. I have no interest in the physical body, which to me is simply transport. I see no reason why your sex should have any effect on this situation”. And with that, he focussed his sight out of the window and ceased to speak to any of them. 

Dr Watson, kindly, told Molly that he had never had any intention to tell anyone of her deception. She was clearly a highly qualified, competent pathologist, and he admired her gumption and her pluck. His moustache twitched upwards as he smiled. 

Molly was mortified at her own frailty, but the release of this evening, coupled with the kindness of relative strangers, in Dr and Mrs Watson, seemed to have opened some floodgates, and she couldn’t help but let tears roll down her cheeks as she thanked them, though she dashed the tears away as quickly as they came. What was wrong with her, she seemed to have lost all control!

She blushed as she caught Holmes’s eye and saw him regarding her with a stony look. 

“Dr Hooper” He said, thoughtfully. “You are probably aware that there is a current project, rebuilding a modern Morgue and Pathology laboratory at Bart’s?” 

Molly nodded. “Yes” she said, unable to resist the stab of excitement she felt about that whole idea. “Professor Stamford asked me to get involved with the planning and costing of the project. It will be a world leading facility, when they finish it!”

“Indeed” agreed Holmes, reaching into his coat pocket and pulling out a long, wooden pipe, which he proceeded to fiddle with but not light, during their conversation. “It occurs to me that this is 1895 after all, you ARE eminently qualified, and there are now more women doctors in this country than we could have imagined just a decade ago. I am not without influence on the board of Bart’s. Indeed there is one very senior member of staff who, if I may be so immodest, is extremely grateful for my recent assistance in getting him out of an extremely injurious situation with a – ah – a young female personage. I feel absolutely sure that with his help, your medical certification can be, shall we say - transitioned across to the name of Molly Hooper, from your previous, assumed name. You could start a new post within the new facility within the year, I believe. I see no reason why you should not continue your successful career, with less need for dissembling, or for – fake facial hair”. He stuck his pipe into his mouth, and Dr Watson gave a shout of laughter, and leaned across to light his friend’s pipe, followed by his own.

Molly sat, transfixed. Mary squeezed her hand. “Come, Molly! How wonderful does that scenario sound?” 

Molly was quiet, and grave. “It sounds - like a dream. If indeed it is possible for Mr Holmes to truly bring this to reality. ” 

Holmes once more flicked his cold eyes over her, said baldly “It will be elementary, Dr Hooper”, and then turned back to looking out of the carriage and making slow draws on his pipe as they went along. 

Molly sat, her corset feeling suddenly even more constricting than usual; she felt a wild need to take huge breaths that were denied her in its confines. She put a hand over the front of her waist, and had to take some quick, short breaths to steady herself, then she smiled at Mary, feeling warm and grateful for her new friend’s kindness this overwhelming evening, and she said as much to Mary. 

“Nonsense, I feel so pleased to have met you, Molly. You are an exceptional woman. I must introduce you to my suffragists, they will love you! Oh, and you simply must come to our next meeting. Will you come?” 

Dr Watson’s moustache quivered as he loudly cleared his throat. 

“Another meeting, my dear? When this time? Will I ever find you at home?” but he had a humorous glint in his eye, and Mary simply raised an amused eyebrow.

The carriage pulled up and stopped its progress through the dark streets of London, and Molly realised they hadn’t stopped to discuss where her home was. She was unfamiliar with the street they had arrived at, but could see as she looked out, that a street sign on the corner proclaimed it to be ‘Baker Street W1’. Without even discussing it, the gentlemen and Mary were tipping out of the carriage with alacrity, walking toward the house numbered ‘221b’, talking all the while – Mary stating her intention to ask Mrs Hudson for a sherry and some fruit cake, the gentlemen discussing whether the good lady would be in the mood to provide, or even talk, given her recent attempts to influence Dr Watson into giving her a more central role – or at least, some lines – in his stories in The Strand. Holmes had checked his progress to turn back to the carriage where Molly sat, and was somewhat imperiously holding out his hand for Molly to alight from the carriage and join them. With Dr and Mrs Watson disappearing in the open door in front of them, chatting and calling to Mrs Hudson all the while, Molly felt that she mustn’t hold things up, so she stepped lightly down from the carriage, only taking Holmes’s proffered hand for the smallest of moments. She fisted her hands, trying to ignore a strange, unsettling feeling, and followed her new friends into what she now realised, were Mr Holmes’s rooms. 

Molly admitted to herself that she may be a lost soul indeed, when she stepped shyly into Mr Holmes’s rooms at Baker Street. Not only was she highly sensitised to his presence in the room, trying to avoid her eyes going to his face at every moment, just to enjoy that beautiful, Byronic countenance – but to be in his rooms made her quite giddy somehow. His rooms were cluttered but clean (Mrs Hudson was indeed currently a woman of few words but clearly she did a good job as housekeeper) but they were also the cosy and somehow smelt….stimulating in some way. Perhaps it was the maleness of the scent. Molly had no idea what it was made up of – expensive cologne, shaving products, tobacco, incense of some kind perhaps – but it was intoxicating. A hearty fire burned in the grate, a carelessly thrown down violin lay on the small table next to a music stand. She imagined Holmes’s elegant hands playing. Books of all kinds tumbled a little chaotically on the shelves, and a strange kind of slipper – Indian, Persian? – held tobacco on the mantelpiece.   
Somehow she felt Holmes’s attention upon her as she looked around his rooms, and couldn’t stop herself glancing up at him. “Your rooms are very – comfortable, Mr Holmes” She said to him, and then could have kicked herself for saying something so dull. 

She was saved by Mrs Hudson bustling in with a tray, on which there was a decanter – obviously Mary’s wished-for sherry had been requested – and some hearty slices of fruit cake. 

Mrs Hudson was introduced to Molly and had clucked over her a little, saying she was pale and must sit down. Molly was inexorably propelled to, and settled in, the comfortable leather chair to the right of the fireplace, with Mary opposite her in the other arm chair. She took a sherry gratefully, and managed to drink much of the strong drink far more quickly than she should. It had been an emotional evening. Holmes, and Dr and Mrs Watson, were conversing easily, discussing the evening and the case, with much laughter and banter between them. Molly sat watching them, enjoying their ease together, their humour, their clear regard – no, more than that, their love – for each other. She envied it and suddenly felt her own habitual loneliness and isolation like a blow in the stomach. 

The two gentlemen were standing with their pipes on the go, either side of the fireplace. Holmes nearest her, standing side on to her, and all the time she was painfully aware of his proximity. As the conversation continued, and Molly finished her Sherry – it had been a large glass and she was not a drinker – she felt ever more tired, and her eyes and brain seemed to be filled with cobwebs that she just could not blink away no matter how she tried. She rested her tired head on the side of the comfortable armchair, feeling that she simply must close her eyes, and then she would be better able to get going again – she must request the Watsons to escort her home, she thought, remembering she was in feminine dress today. She missed the freedom that her male persona brought her. Were she only in that garb, she could take herself off quite happily and make her own way home. 

Mary Watson was enjoying her evening immensely. She was convinced that she had indeed made a new friend in Molly Hooper, and would enjoy getting to know her better. Mary was very keen to know such a truly remarkable woman, who had taken on the men at their own game – and won. Yet there was also something vulnerable about her, and she was comparatively young and alone. Mary had enjoyed confounding both her own husband and Mr Holmes this evening, being that one step ahead of them when they met her at the church. She felt that her beloved John would have to take her a little more seriously after tonight – allow her to have a little more life outside the home. And she had been secretly most impressed with Sherlock Holmes tonight. He had understood and respected those women. Understood how being treated as invisible, unimportant, had led to the Ricoletti ‘situations’. Impressed, and surprised, for Holmes had always maintained a stony faced distance when it came to women, and indeed John had told her once that he had said to John that women, ‘even the best of them’, were not to be trusted. Mary felt sure her friendship had made some change in Sherlock’s view of her sex in general, but clearly this man had a long way to go in his understanding of all people, not just women. And as regards women, Mary thought, Holmes had certainly had to re-calibrate this evening, when faced with this remarkable, determined young pathologist. 

As Mary glanced to Molly, she was charmed to note that the young doctor appeared to have dropped off into an exhausted sleep, looking very small and very young, somewhat lost in Holmes’s fireside armchair. Even more interestingly, the emotionless, uninterested Holmes appeared to be spellbound by the sight. He was looking at her, making a move to step away, stepping back again, and swallowing hard. 

Holmes appeared quite flustered and discommoded as he stepped sideways to Mary’s chair, still looking back at Molly. 

“Ah – Mary, it appears you may need to assist Dr Hooper home. I asked the carriage to wait - will you take it?”

“Oh indeed, Sherlock. The poor girl is exhausted no doubt. It’s not every day that a person makes a revelation as huge as the one she did tonight – for you….”

Mary looked up at Sherlock through her eyelashes as she put on her gloves. She was gratified to see the detective speechless, reduced again to convulsive swallowing as he regarded Molly. 

“And she’s so slight,” whispered Mary in confidential tones to Sherlock, watching for his reaction. “You could span her waist with your hands. And yet so much determination in her. What a woman!”

Mary was thoroughly enjoying herself now, as Sherlock cleared his throat suddenly. This brought Molly back to herself, and she brought a hand up to wipe away the sleepiness from her eyes, and to smooth her hair. 

“Oh, do excuse me!” she smiled, a quick, transforming smile at the three people looking at her. “I am tired. I had the early shift at Bart’s this morning – “

Mary bustled her up and out of the chair. “Oh goodness Molly, of course you’re tired! Dr Watson and I will see you home now. And soon,” Mary fixed Sherlock with an intense look “I feel we need to meet again, to discuss the future plans for your role at Bart’s….”

Molly bid a quick, shy farewell to Sherlock Holmes as she followed Dr and Mrs Watson out of his rooms and down the stairs. Watson raised his arm and waved a jolly farewell to his friend, and the three made for the waiting carriage in the street below. Something compelled Molly to look back up at the window of number 221b, but she was not rewarded with any parting look from Mr Holmes. 

On arriving home, Molly bid a truly fond farewell to Dr and Mrs Watson, and trudged exhausted, into her own small accommodation. Her landlady, Mrs Keen, was a treasure – and up until today, the only person who knew of Molly’s deception. Thanks to this unusually ‘game for anything’ lady, Molly was able to come and go freely, whether as Molly, or as Dr Hooper. Molly greeted her with a kiss, expressed that she was done in, and would go straight to bed, and the landlady patted her arm kindly as Molly went up. Somehow Molly expected to pass a restless night, given all that had occurred this strange evening, but as soon as she had made herself comfortable in her nightgown and veritably collapsed onto her bed, she was asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have no idea if this will appeal to anyone else, but I thought I would keep posting just in case. I love these characters!


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Holmes keeps his word. Molly ponders on freedom, corsets and deerstalkers ;-)

Whatever Molly might have imagined in her endless wonderings about how Sherlock Holmes may be able to assist her, and whether he truly would be able to ensure that she could work as herself in her chosen field, none of her imaginings, no matter how fevered, came close to preparing her for what happened when just a few short days later, she received a telegram at Bart’s, asking – demanding – her attendance at 221b Baker Street.

The telegram came just as Molly had finished her shift, so she tucked it into her jacket pocket, bid goodnight to the staff still there and thoughtfully made her way out of the hospital, walking her usual route to her lodging. She could of course have turned in the other direction and made her way directly to Baker Street, however Molly had to admit to herself that there was indeed some vanity in her, and that she would far rather meet Sherlock Holmes when she was in feminine garb, despite its marked discomfort and the restrictions it put on her behaviour. In her male clothing, she had the freedom to walk to Baker Street and to walk back again alone, no matter what the time of night, with no concern for the opinions of others. She had to admit to herself that she would miss this freedom. It might not be at all as easy to give up as it might seem, if indeed she ever had to do so. 

Once at her lodging, Molly chose her favourite dress, a simple dark burgundy gown. Living without a maid as she did, she always ensured that she chose gowns that were as practical as possible, that buttoned in the front for instance, so that she could dress herself - but she couldn't help a few puffs of annoyance as she did so. It took such a long time, and she always found it a little hard to acclimatise to wearing a corset again after being in the relative freedom of her male clothing. One thing Molly never minded taking a little time over was her hair. She liked her hair, and felt it was her best feature - long, shiny and the colour of chestnuts. She pulled it up and pinned it carefully. Her modest vanity was satisfied with these steps, and she rushed out again, and took a hansom cab to Baker Street, asking the cabbie to wait for her. Shortly she was ascending the stairs, behind Mrs Hudson, and with a severe case of butterflies in the stomach. 

Mrs Hudson had found her voice again, and was talking all the while, but Molly heard none of her conversation – she was humming with excitement as to what Holmes could have to say to her. 

Holmes was stood at the window, somewhat informally attired – his jacket was draped over the back of his fireside chair and he wore no tie, his shirt open at the neck. He had his hands in his pockets. As Molly entered and Mrs Hudson left (“Aww. I’ll leave you two young people together, then…”) he whipped his hands out of his pockets, and busied himself moving newspapers, pipes and tobacco off the chairs. 

“Uh – Dr Hooper. Do sit down.” Holmes indicated the chair opposite his own. 

Molly sat. Swallowed. Mr Holmes was more handsome than ever. She made a polite enquiry as to his wellbeing, which he waved away with a flick of his elegant hand, and he came to sit in his chair, opposite her, perched on the edge, regarding her most intensely. He cleared his throat. 

“Dr Hooper. Bear with me, because what I am about to ask you may appear irrelevant to matters at hand, but I assure you it is most - pertinent.”

Drowning in his sea green eyes, Molly simply smiled slightly.

“You may ask me anything, Mr Holmes”. She said.

He cleared his throat again. 

“Very well. Is there – that is, do you have a beau? Is there a gentleman to whom you are attached?”

Even given Holmes’s warning, this was the very last question Molly had ever expected to hear. Molly could not help looking as surprised as she felt, but she did not want Mr Holmes to think her prudish or shockable, so she quickly covered her reaction and replied without thinking further.

“When I took the decision I did to become a pathologist, Mr Holmes, I put that side of myself away. I had never met any gentleman to whom I was truly attracted. I felt a strong need to do things with my life that did not revolve around looking after a home and children – so to answer your question, no. There is – no-one.”

Until you, screamed Molly’s internal, honest voice. She closed her mouth tight and regarded Mr Holmes silently.

He nodded. “You are, it is to be supposed, old enough to know your own mind. You are how old?”

Molly found that, although this was not a gentlemanly question, she was quite enjoying the complete openness of the way this conversation was going, so she answered simply 

“I am nine and twenty. Quite the old maid, Mr Holmes.”

Holmes took himself off to the window and looked out as he spoke. 

“Hmm. Your propensity for male garb and your long hours at the Morgue seemed to indicate that you had no intimate relationship.” 

Holmes turned to face her again, hands in pockets again, and slowly took a step or two toward her. 

“Therefore, it appears I have a proposal for you, Dr Hooper”. He gave a slightly bitter little laugh at his own choice of words. “I have spoken to Professor Woodhouse at Bart’s. He is more than happy to oblige me by allowing your registration to be altered so that you can work as Dr Molly Hooper in the new facilities, which by the way, are proceeding apace, and will be completed by the end of the year. The one difficulty that I could not overcome without speaking to you today, is that the board of Bart’s will not countenance an unmarried female pathologist. Apparently, it verges on the immoral and the shocking, not that an unmarried woman be slicing up cadavers – but that she would be at times, unchaperoned with gentlemen working alongside her”. Holmes rolled his eyes at this. “Therefore, it seems utterly clear to me that the solution to this problem is for us to marry without delay. You will then be fully able to take up your post when available. “

If Holmes saw that Molly was literally staring at him open-mouthed by this point, he gave no indication of it, and once more came to sit opposite her.

“I am not a marrying man, Dr Hooper.” His face bore an expression of true disgust as he said this. “If the word marriage were to be applied to me it would simply be to say that I am married to my work. I would make no woman a good husband – I am irritable, rude, and dismissive, often absent at short notice for long periods when on cases, targeted by criminals. I am not someone who could ever ‘fall in love.’” 

Holmes’s face evidenced his complete distaste for that concept, and he went on,

“I see no downside to the solution. You may think that I am being ‘kind’ to you in making this offer. I can assure you that it is as much to my benefit as to yours. In making the simple legal transaction of marriage, I get as much benefit as you. You are an excellent pathologist – the best at Bart’s by far. With a more – ah - harmonious working relationship with you, my work will be much benefitted. We neither of us need to burden the other with any other expectations. It will be a marriage in name only to satisfy the conditions set down by the Hospital. You will not need to make any changes to your life in any way – not even to move from your lodgings.”

Molly still sat transfixed, almost unable to take in his words. She was just about to try to speak, though she knew not what would come out of her mouth if she tried, when Holmes stood, and looked down at her, his face suddenly bearing an almost tender look. 

“I will give you some time, of course. I realise this is rather a lot to take in.” He regarded her thoughtfully, almost regretfully. “I suppose it ought not to be done. You are still young yet - it is more than possible that someone will fix your affections. Perhaps I am misguided.”

And of course Molly knew what her answer would be. They would be able to work together and she would not need to wear a disguise nor affect her previous antagonism toward him. He wasn't offering love, but he was offering what could be a true partnership and there was intoxicating excitement in that idea. He was offering her freedom to work with him, to be his equal in that, to have a rich and fulfilling life as a professional woman. It was an offer that could empower her and enrich her life. Yes - the offer he was making to her now was enough. It was more than enough. She did not care that it would hurt her heart – it was hurt already, and always would be. There were other important things in life. She stood up, facing him. 

“Mr Holmes, do not second guess yourself! I am certain that – no-one – will fix my affections, as you put it. No-one. I accept your offer, I will marry you! And…Mr Holmes?”

Holmes moved imperceptibly closer. Molly couldn’t help thinking he was close enough to be taking her in his arms and kissing her, if this had been a real proposal.

“Yes, Dr Hooper?” He said, his voice incredibly low, vibrating through her. 

“Thank you” Molly said, simply. 

Unexpectedly, Holmes took her hand and kissed it. 

“Then I think this is the point at which we must start to dispense with formalities. You are Molly, I am Sherlock”. 

Molly nodded, a strange thrill going through her. 

Holmes seemed suddenly energised. He found his pipe, moved to the mantelpiece and busied himself making it ready to smoke. “We will need to procure a ring – for verisimilitude. Perhaps a trip to Hatton Garden is in order?”

Molly allowed herself a smile. It was incredible to hear Holmes talking this way. 

Still full of energy, Holmes called on Mrs Hudson for tea, of which the newly ‘engaged’ pair made short work as soon as Mrs Hudson bustled in with it. Planning a sham marriage apparently gave one an appetite, Molly thought. As Mrs Hudson cleared away the tea things, Holmes leaned right over to whisper in Molly’s ear “Do not breathe a word of our plan unless you want it all over London by supper time! I suppose in fact, we ought to let Dr and Mrs Watson know first. John and Mary, I mean. My motivation for this is mainly selfish, I will admit. Mary has been relentless in sending me daily notes to chase me on the matter of your future post at Bart’s and it is simply self-preservation on my part to update her now, I think”. 

Molly smiled, surprised and grateful to hear of her new friend’s efforts on her behalf and very happy at the thought of seeing her again. Sherlock shrugged on his black greatcoat, Molly gathered up her gloves and hat, and they were on their way. As they left the house, Holmes put on his grey deerstalker hat, and Molly couldn’t help but stare a little. She shook her head almost imperceptibly, and gave a little secret smile – she loved him in that hat. There was just something about it. 

They took the waiting hansom. The carriage was small, and Molly was burningly aware of Holmes’s lean, powerful thigh against hers, despite the layers of petticoats under her dress. She felt a sudden lurch in her guts. What on earth was she doing? Tying herself in a sham marriage to this mercurial man she barely knew. Letting herself love this man when she had heard from his own lips just how hopeless and misguided a path that was – it was simply a path to pain. 

Determinedly, Molly made herself stop these thoughts. She must take life day by day, she realised. Holmes was clearly a gentleman, an honourable man. He was enabling her to have a life she had never even dared to imagine was possible.

If Sherlock Holmes had been planning to enjoy the spectacle of his closest friend utterly speechless, opening and closing his mouth without finding any words for what seemed like minutes at a time, he succeeded in that endeavour when he made his engagement announcement to the Watsons. Eventually, John found his voice, and advanced to shake Sherlock’s hand repeatedly, assuring him all the while of his joy at hearing the news. 

“Holmes, my dear fellow! Congratulations, indeed! You are a very lucky man. I confess, I never thought to see the day”….

Sherlock barked out a short laugh at his friend’s discomposure. 

“Watson, do not strain your belief too far. Dr Hooper and I have come to an arrangement, that is all.” 

Sherlock went on to explain to John and Mary the stipulation from Bart’s that Molly be taken on as a married woman and the marriage, in name only, that they had decided upon.  
Mary’s gimlet eyes were going from one to the other, from Molly to Sherlock. She smiled, just a small ghost of a smile, but all she said was

“Oh, I see. A sham marriage, then.”

Holmes gave one of his small one-sided smiles, flicking his eyes to Molly.

“I think perhaps we’ll call it a marriage of minds?” he said. 

Molly smiled gratefully at him. He had found the exact words. Kinder by far than to say a ‘sham marriage’. His words brought intimations of friendship. Of partnership. A marriage of minds. It was something. It really was. 

Gentlemanly as ever, John Watson was utterly shocked at the idea, and looked daggers at his best friend. He turned his attention to Molly. 

“Dr Hooper – Molly – is this arrangement really your desire? Holmes has over-reached himself, I declare. I cannot countenance this. It cannot be right to tie yourself to a loveless marriage. You are not thinking of the implications – what of your future, of love, of family?”

Molly shook her head quickly, and went forward to put her hand firmly on John’s forearm – the good Doctor had angrily crossed his arms while addressing her and Sherlock. 

“John” she said, feeling somewhat shy of using her new friend’s first name for the first time. “Please – I appreciate your concern. You are truly a good man. But please believe me when I say that I am persuaded that no one will fix my affections except – that is, I mean, I have always sought to use my abilities outside the home, to work at my profession. I welcome this arrangement. I am not a silly young girl. I know what I am doing. I am going into this with eyes wide open. And, if you’ll allow me the liberty to say so, I am certain that the respect and friendship of the people in this room will be enough for me to consider myself as having a family. Not of blood, but of choice. I have no other family, and I can imagine wanting no better”. 

A strange squeak followed, and all were surprised to realise it came from Mary Watson, who was fumbling with a handkerchief, wiping her eyes, and advancing on Molly to scoop her up in a huge hug.

“Oh, Molly! You dear girl. I for one am honoured to be a friend to you and if you are sure, then I am sure too, that this is the right thing to do.” 

The tension in the room dissipated somewhat, and Molly saw in her peripheral vision that Sherlock and John were shaking hands. Mary sat herself and Molly down on the chaise longue, and took a deep breath. 

“Well, Molly, “ she said, smiling her pretty, wide smile, “it may not be a regular marriage, but Sherlock Holmes is not a regular man, and neither are you the run-of-the-mill young lady! I shall so enjoy seeing how matters unfold…”

“Matters?” Molly asked, unsure of her friend’s exact meaning. 

“Oh – um, with your post at Bart’s, I mean. Of course”. Mary’s smile was even brighter than usual and there seemed to be a little gleam in her eye.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I fear the marriage of convenience thing might be a bit over-used but it just throws up so many delicious ideas for shenanigans! I think this is what's described as slow-burn? I like things to unfold! Still feeling incredibly nervous about posting this. Hope some of you enjoy :-)


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A wedding, a non-honeymoon, an oblivious Mr Holmes.

The following Friday, Molly was able to look back on the most eventful week of her life. She had worked as usual at the beginning of the week, and been informed by Sherlock, via a telegram, that their marriage was scheduled for that Friday, he having secured a special licence.   
A visit to the Morgue on the Wednesday from Dr Woodhouse himself, informed Molly that the new facilities were due to be opened, ahead of schedule, in around a month. He was suggesting that her leave of absence start with immediate effect. There would be new members of staff in the new facilities, who did not know her, so she would be able to return as Molly Hooper. The only member of staff coming across would be her assistant Philip Anderson, and Dr Woodhouse said that he would ensure that Anderson did not give away Molly’s secret.  
And so before she seemed to have had time to think, Molly had got to the end of the week, finished her job at Bart’s, and married Sherlock Holmes with the Watsons as witnesses. It had been a whirlwind of a week, but strangely, Molly found that her actual marriage service seemed to feel like being in the very eye of the storm; time seemed to slow around her, and she could see and remember every detail; the simple, almost empty church, the dust swirling in the ray of sunshine that slanted in front of them; the sound of her simple dove grey silk gown rustling as she moved during the service, noticing every vein on Sherlock’s hand and feeling it’s warmth on hers as they made vows to each other; the Vicar’s lined, warm face smiling on their less than honest union. Leaving the church, the Vicar had shaken her hand and surprised her by leaning closer to her and saying, as Sherlock led the way back on to the pavement,  
“I never heard a groom sound so sure and clear. I feel sure you will both be very happy”.  
Molly’s cheeks burned with discomfort. For the first time she felt that what she had done might be truly wrong, but she did not let herself wallow. She and Sherlock had made their choice– as Sherlock had said himself, it was to be a marriage of minds, and that would be a better one than some real marriages Molly had witnessed!  
At dinner time on their wedding day, Sherlock and Molly sat at the dinner table at the Watson’s home. Mary had been scandalised that Sherlock had no plans after the wedding other than he and Molly returning to their respective homes, and would not countenance the day passing without their having dinner together and toasting Molly’s new life. Being as informal as they were, and such good friends, they dispensed with the usual form of the ladies retiring. They all sat together after the meal, both men lounging comfortably and smoking their pipes.  
Sherlock had just been bemoaning the terrible lack of interesting cases on hand in London, when he suddenly turned to Molly, saying  
“My brother Mycroft sent me a note about a possibly interesting case down on the Sussex coast. I could have a look at it”.  
“You’re….. going to Sussex?” Molly asked.  
“John, you’ll come won’t you? Molly, don’t you have a cottage on the Sussex Downs?” Sherlock was sitting up, obviously interested in his own idea.  
John choked on his pipe.  
“Holmes, old man! Be reasonable. Can’t take me instead of Molly on a honeymoon to Molly’s cottage! Not the thing at all!”  
Sherlock rolled his eyes theatrically.  
“It’s not a honeymoon, Watson, for pity’s sake! You really must get into your head this isn’t a real marriage. I’m sure Molly will be more than happy to get on with her life as usual now, won’t you Molly?”  
“Oh – yes. Yes, of course” It took Molly just a second too long to reply. Then she collected herself, and stood quickly. “The cottage is called Orchard Cottage. Just outside Amberley. The lady who caretakes is called Mrs Partridge, she is landlady at the Green Man Inn in the village and will let you in. I will send her a telegram. You and John are more than welcome to use the cottage for as long as the case requires.” Molly cursed herself, for feeling the prickle of inexplicable tears behind her eyes, and she hurried to pick up her bag. “Mary, thank you for such a lovely dinner and for your – help, today. I am a little tired and will go now if you don’t mind. Good – goodbye, Sherlock. Thank you”.  
And Molly turned and left, quickly, in order to be clear of her friends and the room before the tears came in earnest.  
Molly was out of the house and hurrying home before Sherlock moved. He seemed rooted to his chair, clearly realising that he had made some sort of faux-pas but not able to quite see what. Mary went to the window to check on Molly, but she had hurried off on foot without even waiting for a hansom. Mary turned from the window to look at Sherlock.  
“Sherlock…” she said, thoughtfully “I think – and I could be wrong, but I think that you might find that even a fake marriage needs a little bit more tact than you are used to displaying….” And she moved away slowly, going to the sideboard and pouring herself a glass of sherry.  
Sherlock shifted a little uncomfortably in his chair, but determinedly moved on to discuss the case with John, persuading him that they would take the train to Sussex the following day.  
For her part, Molly spent her wedding night laying on her single bed, having allowed herself the indulgence of a hearty bout of tears. She felt she had known what this marriage was, but Sherlock’s ability to completely dismiss her had made her doubt herself. How much of a marriage of minds could it be, if he would not let her in any more than when she was interacting with him as ‘Hooper’ in the morgue?  
The next day, true to her word, Molly sent a telegram to Mrs Partridge to ask her to allow Sherlock and John to use her cottage. She asked that milk and bread be provided and fires lit ready for their arrival. She also took herself in hand and reminded her stupid, stupid self that this marriage was to enable her to work in her professional post, to lead a fulfilling working life – not to indulge her hopeless romantic feelings.  
Within just a few days however Molly was experiencing another complication. She had an unexpected visit from Mrs Hudson and Mary and was dismayed when they told her that Mrs Hudson had needed to field numerous visits from people – Sherlock’s brother Mycroft (quietly incredulous at the marriage news, and ever so slightly menacing, though that was probably aimed at Sherlock, Mrs Hudson thought) Bart’s board members and their wives, and Dr and Mrs Woodhouse, all expecting to see Sherlock and Molly together at Baker Street, and all roundly scandalised to find that he had gone away, and to see no evidence of Molly’s existence at Baker Street at all.  
“Oh well, I don’t suppose we will be the focus of the gossip for long?” Molly suggested, hopefully.  
“I’m not so sure, Molly.” Said Mary, unusually seriously for her. “Board members and their wives have friends, and their friends have friends, and before you know it your strange marriage is the talk of the town, and that may make your new post at Bart’s a non starter before you have even had a chance at it. There is no point surely, in Sherlock having gone so far as to contract marriage with you, if it isn’t going to actually help.”  
Mrs Hudson was shaking her head.  
“I declare I don’t know what that boy was thinking. Ridiculous idea. If you’re going to marry a girl, at least have the courtesy to live with her, that’s my view!”  
Mary took Molly’s hand and spoke decisively.  
“I think we have to take the initiative, Molly, with Sherlock away. You need to move to Baker Street, and we will send a telegram to Sherlock that he needs to come back. Dr and Mrs Woodhouse have left a card at Baker Street which promises that they’ll be visiting again tomorrow afternoon. One visit seeing the two of you together, and they can hopefully stop the gossip before it affects your job”.  
Molly groaned.  
“But Mary, Sherlock doesn’t want this! I wouldn’t dream of imposing myself at Baker Street. And he doesn’t want to have to come back to London just to have an afternoon visit from my boss! Oh, it’s all too awful. I shouldn’t have let him do it! It was too good of him!”  
Mary and Mrs Hudson shared a wry look, and Mary shook her head, saying  
“Molly, Sherlock chose the marriage in order to secure your post at Bart’s. This is the last step in securing it, that’s all. Now – pack up as much as you can, and we will have the Baker Street irregulars here to assist you to get it all into Baker Street within the hour. You may leave the telegram to Sherlock, to me”.  
Feeling rather sick and full of dread at how Sherlock would feel at this interruption to his casework, Molly did pack up what she could, and took some time to speak with her dear landlady, and promise a visit back soon, and express her gratitude for all the good lady had done for her. Tears were shed, a rag-tag group of the Irregulars appeared with a carriage, and Molly was moved lock stock and barrel almost before she could think.  
Mary’s telegram had the desired effect. Sherlock, on reading it, immediately informed John that the case could wait and that they needed to get back to Baker Street. He wouldn’t elaborate to John Watson, but when the detective was engaged upon fetching his coat and case, John opened the telegram that Sherlock had crumpled in his hand and tossed into the wastepaper basket. His eyebrows raised, and then he smiled very slightly. He had to admit, his wife had a succinct way with words….  
“URGENT YOU RETURN BAKER STREET stop YOUR ABSENCE CAUSING COMMENT GOSSIP AND DAMAGE TO REPUTATION OF MH stop YOU NEED TO BE PRESENT FOR VISIT FROM WOODHOUSES TOMORROW stop MH HAS MOVED TO BAKER STREET AT MY INSISTENCE stop WHICH YOU SHOULD HAVE INSISTED ON FROM THE START YOU FOOLISH MAN stop”.  
Sherlock grumbled on and off during the journey back to London about having to abandon, for now, the case in Sussex, but John Watson could tell that his protestations weren’t heartfelt.  
Having dropped John off at his home, Sherlock Holmes arrived back at Baker Street. His step was light as he approached the door, and he whistled slightly, taking the steps up to his rooms two at a time, and calling for Mrs Hudson and Molly as he went. He fairly barrelled into his living room, and stopped dead when he entered it, greeted as he was with the sight of his new wife with an unknown young man, who was kissing her hand – lingeringly. It took Sherlock not one second to see that Molly’s usually pale complexion was suffused with a pink blush. She was smiling up at this unknown visitor.  
On seeing Sherlock at the door, Molly didn’t even have time to speak to him before Sherlock had reached her side in two paces. The visitor had the grace to let go her hand, and she stiffened as she felt Sherlock’s hand around her waist. When he leaned down to place a firm kiss – on her lips – her eyes rounded with surprise.  
“Molly, my dear.” Said Sherlock, straightening up, his voice a note or two deeper than normal, still looking intensely at her. His arm tightened around her waist and Molly felt herself fairly tugged closer to him. Only then did Sherlock’s eye turn to the visitor, and a friendly eye it was not.  
Molly collected her thoughts and realised that introductions were in order.  
“Sherlock, my….my d-dear” she began “this is my new colleague at Bart’s! When I return we will be working together in the Morgue. This is Dr Moran”.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There are bumps in the road for this unconventional marriage!   
> Hooper makes a brief cameo appearance.   
> And we get to see Sherlock the violinist. Oh and shhhh to anyone who knows that the Enigma Variations were not composed until 1899. It's just the perfect piece of music for Sherlock to play, and for Molly to hear. The music that she particularly loves is Variation 9, 'Nimrod'. If you don't know it, have a listen on You Tube (though I'm sure most people know it). I don't know about you, but I certainly can't resist Violinist Sherlock with a curl or two on his brow from his exertions, putting himself in harms way to solve the case..........

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to everyone who is reading, leaving kudos and comments, it's so kind of you and is really much appreciated. You are keeping a newbie going :-)

Dr Moran had clearly been just about to bid Molly farewell, and the appearance of her saturnine, glowering bridegroom did not encourage him to change his mind, so he bowed politely to them both, and bid Molly a warm farewell, reminding her as he went that the invitation to the drinks party to celebrate the opening of the new facilities at Bart’s, was extended to both Mr and Mrs Holmes – and then he was gone. 

After a moment or two, Molly looked up at her husband. 

“………..Sherlock……..” she said, quietly.

He was looking down at her intensely

“Yes?”

“Dr Moran has gone now.”

“Hmm”

“You don’t have to pretend any more…..” Molly indicated his arm, still round her waist and holding her to his side.

“Ah!” As if he had been burned, Holmes pulled his arm away and moved off from Molly, clearing his throat and moving to his chair. 

Molly felt she needed to explain her presence at Baker Street, which she felt to be presumptuous in the extreme, so she went to sit (in what she still always thought of as John’s chair, even though John had not lived at Baker Street in the time that she had been visiting) and said quickly

“Sherlock, Mary was insistent I stay here – for now. I’m sure things will settle down once I start my new post and perhaps then I can….I will be able to leave”. 

Sherlock looked at her, and Molly found his expression hard to read, as if perhaps he was trying to read her expression. But he spoke confidently. 

“Nonsense, Molly. Clearly my initial plan wasn’t quite up to scratch. Never been married before, you see! Mary did the right thing entirely. I hope John’s room is suitable for you? It hasn’t been touched since he left I’m afraid. Do you need anything?”

Molly wouldn’t have dreamed of asking for anything, so she shook her head determinedly and assured him that all was in order, and that Mrs Hudson had been most kind in settling her in (the good lady had been mortifying in fact, having to be assured more than once that yes, Molly did indeed need all her things in her own bedroom and would NOT be sharing with her husband…Mrs Hudson had winked! Molly blushed again at the memory…….)

The visit the next day from Dr and Mrs Woodhouse went better than expected. Molly had not thought for a moment that Sherlock would be able to play the role of the doting new husband so well. He managed to have Mrs Woodhouse practically swooning with the romance of their marriage which he presented as a veritable whirlwind of passionate love. Even Dr Woodhouse looked convinced, and said to Molly as he and his wife were about to get into their carriage on leaving, 

“I confess I thought at first the marriage was a simple ruse for your post at Bart’s, Dr Hooper, but it appears a love match indeed. It did seem rather too altruistic that he would have married you only for the purpose of your job!”

As the carriage pulled away, Molly and Sherlock turned to look at each other at exactly the same time. There was a beat of silence, and then they both laughed. As they walked back in to Baker Street, Sherlock stretched and said

“Well, that all went off remarkably well I think. That should do it in terms of stopping any scandal about us before it spreads anywhere. Now perhaps all that’s needed will be an appearance together at a concert or two, and wasn’t there a drinks party at Bart’s that awful chap Moran mentioned?”

Molly nodded but said

“Dr Moran wasn’t awful! He seemed very nice!”

“Hmm, well he was over-familiar with you”. Huffed Sherlock. 

Sherlock seemed a man on a mission, and he ensured that during that week the newly married couple were seen at two concerts - seen by people, who doubtless knew people, who knew people……London society was a small world. At both concerts, (one orchestral concert – Dvorak’s Cello Concerto, and one Opera – Purcell’s Dido and Aeneas) Molly and Sherlock shared a box with the Watsons. Molly was too engaged in the entertainment to realise, but it did not pass Mary Watson by, that Sherlock spent more time watching Molly’s reactions than looking at the stage. Molly hadn’t been to London concerts before, and was enchanted, discovering a passion for music she hadn’t known she had. Sherlock seemed to enjoy watching her find it, as much as she enjoyed the finding of it. The opera in particular stunned her, and at one particularly tear-inducing aria, she found that Sherlock had passed her his handkerchief before she even realised that tears were rolling down her cheeks. 

After the opera had finished, and the four friends were standing, picking up hats and gloves, Molly laid her hand on Sherlock’s arm, excitedly discussing her impressions of it with him. He smiled down at her all the while, at one point covering her hand on his arm with his own, and they walked out of the box and through the Theatre, still utterly absorbed in their conversation. 

With great satisfaction, Mary and John heard one or two comments as they passed, from people remarking on the transformation of Mr Holmes into an unexpectedly attentive new husband. 

As they settled in the carriage, John congratulated his friend.

“Well done, Holmes – the gossip is already in support of your marriage. You’ve done the trick by your attentions to Molly this evening!”

Holmes looked blank for a moment, then said

“Ah! Yes – yes, of course, that was the intention”. 

Molly for her part shrunk a little into herself. When would she ever, ever learn? These attentions from Sherlock that had made her feel this week as if they were truly drawing closer, of course they were carefully calculated. He was here to accomplish a task. 

The next day, Molly saw little of Sherlock, who pronounced that he was off to visit his brother and take the rap for marrying without letting him know. 

“Might as well get it over with. Do it at the Diogenes Club – he can’t shout at me there”. 

Molly, for her part, had an interesting visit at Baker Street from Inspector Lestrade. The inspector had seen John Watson in recent days and was informed, but most bemused and amused, at the change in both Sherlock and the person he knew as ‘Hooper’. The inspector was a warm and kind man, and it wasn’t long before he and Molly were chatting like old friends. 

“I’d actually come in the hopes of seeing Holmes. We’ve got a gruesome crime in Shoreditch in a – in a……..” Lestrade’s face was a picture of confusion. Dealing with ‘Hooper’ he would have felt able to speak freely, but with Mrs Holmes in her gown in front of him….

Molly giggled. “Sorry to laugh Inspector…but your face is a picture! Please, speak freely. I shan’t faint just because I’m in female clothing”. 

“ah, no – of course. Well, the corpse is in a brothel. We’ve asked a pathologist to look at the corpse and they want it taken to the Morgue, but I know how much Sherlock can glean from seeing the corpse in situ. Oh well, if he can’t he can’t. He’ll probably still solve it in five minutes anyway”. Lestrade rolled his eyes. The old frustration still reared it’s head, thought Molly – but he wasn’t alone. Sherlock made them all feel stupid. 

Tentatively, Molly suggested that she could go and take a look at the corpse before it was taken to the morgue. She knew Sherlock’s methods and could give Lestrade at least some information.

“Mrs Holmes – Molly – I simply couldn’t take you there. It wouldn’t be right – wouldn’t be a respectable thing for you to do! Sherlock would have my guts for garters.”  
Molly shook her head determinedly. 

“No, he wouldn’t, Inspector. He really wouldn’t. He doesn’t care for – I mean, think of me in that way. And anyway, I have a plan. Please wait here!”

In just a few minutes, Molly was attired in clothing she thought she had put away for good. ‘Hooper’ was back, and in short order, was on the way to the scene of the crime with Inspector Lestrade. The escapade was most satisfying for Molly, who by careful examination of the corpse, was able to give information – time of death, exact mechanics of the death (stabbing with unusually long thin blade), and using Sherlock’s method of deduction as much as she was able, she gave some suggestions as to the dead man’s previous occupation (indoors, office or desk bound, worked by a window as suggested by pattern of tanned skin to one side only) to Lestrade that should enable him to identify the dead man, or at least have a chance at it. 

On being dropped back at Baker Street, Molly felt happy and warm. Even in the last week or two, she had missed her job, missed using her abilities. It had felt good to have been of help to Lestrade. She tucked away ‘Hooper’ carefully in her room, changed, and found Sherlock in his chair when she re-entered the living room downstairs. She smiled, happily.   
“Sherlock! I was just……..changing. How did matters proceed with your brother? Is he very angry with us?”

Sherlock patted the arm of his chair. Molly went, rather shyly, to sit on it. He had never done that before, but she didn’t want to reject any of his friendliness. She couldn’t. 

“With me, not with you, Molly. He’s just aggrieved that he had no part in it that’s all. Likes to think he has his finger on the pulse…or should I say, a finger in every pie”. Sherlock guffawed at his own joke. Molly looked enquiringly at him. Sherlock merely smiled, mischievously. 

“You’ll see what I mean with the pie reference when you meet him. Which I expect will be sooner than you or I would like. Some godawful dinner, probably”. 

Molly and Sherlock settled in and passed a cosy afternoon, Sherlock was a little restless but seemed determined to stay at home with Molly. She settled herself in her chair (when had she started to think of it as hers, not Johns? She wondered) with a book, tucked her legs up beside her, and Sherlock moved from reading a book, to rifling through his information cataloguing system, to playing the Violin. Molly set her book down when he played – she loved to see and hear him play. She admitted to herself that this was probably in no small part to the fact that when he played he was distracted, and she could indulge herself by staring at his beauty. 

Just then, voices could be heard downstairs – Mrs Hudson letting someone in. 

The next noise was Lestrade calling out “Molly, are you in?” and clearly bounding up the stairs two at a time. “Molly, the brothel murder you looked at for us this morning – we’ve identified the dead man, and I think we’ve got the motive, so we’re on the way to –“ all this had been said loudly as he approached the room, and when he entered and saw Sherlock facing him, he stopped dead, realising that he may have said a little too much. 

Molly, untroubled and unaware of any awkwardness, got up and smiled at Lestrade. She was about to speak, when she heard Sherlock’s voice, calm but hard and cold. 

“Brothel murder?” He simply said. 

Molly turned to him, sure of his interest and keen to tell him her news. 

“Yes! The inspector came to consult you this morning, but of course you were with Mycroft, and it occurred to me that I might be able to assist by examining the body before it was taken to the Morgue – and it was very interesting – “

“Lestrade” Sherlock spoke across her, looking away from her face and back to Lestrade, who was shifting uncomfortably from foot to foot. 

“Lestrade, please tell me that I am mistaken in thinking that you took – that you took MY WIFE to a brothel today?”

“Ah, Holmes, well, I realise how it sounds but….” Lestrade weakly tried a defence, but petered out. 

Molly could sense Sherlock’s anger, but felt it was rather misplaced, and happily said “Oh, it was perfectly fine, Sherlock. I went in disguise. I went in my male clothes!”

Sherlock’s gaze slowly turned back to Molly. 

“You – you did what? Molly, I fail to see the point in our marriage if you simply intend to carry on – carry on in the way you did today.” 

Molly’s heart was pierced by his displeasure, and she flushed hot red. But she felt the injustice of it too. Was even a ‘fake’ husband going to be morally outraged every time she took a decision of her own?

“I didn’t do anything wrong! It is up to me what I do! And anyway, you said – you said that we would not burden each other with expectations. That I wouldn’t have to change my life in any way. But now, now we’re married, I’m supposed to just sit at home and wait for you?”

And with that, Molly fled the room, running up to the privacy and safety of her room. She didn’t hear anything further that was said between Sherlock and Lestrade, being busy with another Sherlock Holmes related bout of tears. When she was cried out, she lay on her bed, miserable and feeling very alone. A quiet knock at her door roused her, and she sat up slowly. 

“Yes, come in Mrs Hudson” She called. It must be about time for tea, Mrs Hudson always bought it up about mid afternoon. 

The door opened, and Sherlock stood there, silhouetted against the light behind him from the hall. 

“May I?”

“Yes – yes of course, come in”. Molly indicated the small armchair that was set in front of her window. Instead of taking it, Sherlock came toward her, and very slowly sat on the end of her bed. Something about the intimacy of this gnawed at Molly’s guts. Why did his every act take hold of her body in one way or another? It was maddening, and exhausting. 

He sat regarding her, his back ramrod straight and his face expressionless. 

“You’ve been crying”. His voice was a rumble. 

Molly couldn’t speak for a moment, but roused herself, feeling that she must make things right. “I’m sorry Sherlock. I shouldn’t have gone with Lestrade. I do see now it was very indiscreet of me, when we are trying to convince everyone about our marriage. I know you’re only doing that to help me, and I shouldn’t have been so ungrateful and – and selfish!” the last word of this sentence was lost in another bout of tears, Molly clapped her hands to her face, ashamed of her weakness but unable to stop. 

The next moment, Sherlock was right next to her, and she was being enveloped in strong arms, and before she knew it, hers were round his neck and her face was buried next to his throat. Oh, but he felt good! And Molly couldn't even describe his scent...cologne, but mainly - just - him...

“Nonsense, Molly!” He was saying. “My fault – my fault entirely. I don’t know what came over me!”

The next moment, with a ‘oo-hoo!” Mrs Hudson WAS coming in with the tea. 

“I thought I would bring up your tea and biscuits Molly, as you weren’t downstairs….”she began, saw the two of them in an embrace, then said “Oh! Oh dearie me, so sorry dears, well you should warn me, and at my time of life indeed” but she had a wide smile, and as she bustled out, gave Sherlock a wink. 

He rolled his eyes. Molly smiled, weakly. Peace being restored, Sherlock and Molly rose, took the tea tray from Mrs Hudson, and made their way down to the living room again.   
Molly ensured that she kept the mood light for the rest of the day, but inside she had been struck for the first time with a strong feeling that the punishment she had chosen to inflict on herself by living with the man she loved who didn’t love her back, might just have been harder to bear than she had imagined. The feeling of having been held in his arms, the feel of his skin against her face, the very smell of him, was addictive to her, and always to be so close to him but unable to express her feelings, was going to be harder than she could ever have thought. 

It was now two weeks until Molly started her new post at Bart’s, and one week until the drinks party that the Holmes’s had agreed to attend there. Sherlock surprised Molly the following day, when, on examining the text of a telegram brought in by Mrs Hudson, he suggested that she, John and Mary accompany him to Sussex later that day for what he believed would be the conclusion of the Sussex case that he and John had begun.

“I would love to see my cottage again, Sherlock! I will call on Mary this morning and see if they can come”. 

“Ah – Molly – do you have any evening gowns? I only ask because we will be attending a concert tomorrow evening for the case. Well – you will be attending, if you’d like to. I will be playing in the Orchestra”.

Molly smiled incredulously, and Sherlock went on to explain that he had decided that he and his client, who was the first violin in the local Sussex Orchestra at Brighton, would swap places at the last minute the following evening. The man had experienced numerous threatening events and letters and Sherlock felt that the concert would bring the whole matter to a conclusion, and he wanted to be at the centre of things in order to be best placed to work out what the next move against the client would be. 

“So as you can see I have my work cut out and will be practicing the piece for most of today and tomorrow. I was familiar with it anyway, but a little practice never goes amiss. 

Molly…..” Sherlock suddenly looked unsure – even a little nervous. 

Molly looked at him, expectantly. 

“I would very much like to buy you a gown for the concert. Make up for acting like an ass yesterday. Would that be alright?” 

Molly blushed a little. This was certainly not something she had experienced before, a man buying her clothes. She had paid for everything for herself for a long time now. But Sherlock was simply wanting to do something for her, and Molly took the offer in the spirit it was offered and accepted with a smile. She wouldn’t hear of Sherlock taking time out of his day to come clothes shopping with her, and said she would call on Mary straight away and ask for her help. 

Sherlock saw the sense of this, and instructed Molly that she was to charge the gown she chose to himself, so within the hour, Molly was hurrying off in a hansom to call on Mary Watson, and Sherlock watched her go from his window, violin and bow in hand. 

He turned to his music stand, beside him. 

“Alright, Elgar – into battle”……said Sherlock, as he put the violin to his chin and began the first few bars of the ‘Enigma Variations’. 

A train journey and a carriage ride from Brighton Station brought the four friends (along with the Watson's maid, so that they didn't have to see to everything themselves) to Molly’s cottage the next day. John and Sherlock almost immediately disappeared off to visit and make arrangements with the client, Mr Jonathan Lawrence, and Mary and Molly spent time walking on the downs. Mary was enchanted with the cottage. Molly expressed that she had neglected the place awfully, and the two practical, energetic women set their hands to giving the place a facelift and some more homely touches. Beeswax polish was wielded, flowers brought in from the garden, chairs and rugs re-arranged. The ladies even went so far as to attempt to bake scones for the gentlemen’s return, but neither lady was a great cook or baker, and when the gentlemen did return it was to hear screeches of laughter from the kitchen, and on investigation, to see the two friends with their hair loose, flour on arms and faces, and one batch of very burnt scones. 

Sherlock and John gave each other a wry smile, and thankfully the Watson’s maid could be relied upon to provide a basic evening meal. Sherlock spent as much time as he could practising the beautiful piece of music he was to play that evening. No one but the conductor and the client knew that Sherlock was to take his place and it was all to be done at the last minute, but Sherlock was restless for all to go well, so everyone made sure they were ready in good time to leave in the carriage that had been specially ordered to take them into Brighton. 

John was smoking a pipe in the carriage, and Sherlock was pacing outside it while Molly and Mary finished getting ready and hurried out towards the gentlemen. John leaned out of the carriage and proferred his hand to Mary, his eyes shining with admiration of his wife, who was looking particularly pretty in a pale yellow gown. 

“You look simply lovely, my dear”. Said John, as Mary entered the carriage. 

Molly had chosen her gown carefully partly because Sherlock was buying it for her and she didn’t want to seem to spend his money unwisely and partly because, as she owned to her inmost secret heart, she wanted him to think well of her looks. She had chosen a deep, forest green velvet gown, which was off the shoulder, tight at the waist (goodness, was it tight – corsets were still not her favourite thing) and unornamented except for some gold embroidery at the neckline and sleeves. She had asked the maid to put her hair up as simply as possible, but in a fit of creativity the maid had included some tiny ivy leaves in the coiffure and Molly had to admit that she liked the look. Some simple gold drop earrings and she was finished, and as nervous as any new bride had ever been for her husband to see her. 

Following close behind Mary, Molly stopped for a heartbeat next to Sherlock but he simply looked at her with a stony expression on his face and didn’t move. Molly clenched her hands into fists as she got in and sat in the carriage – it was the little things, like this, that were barbs in her heart and which she MUST guard herself against. She mustn’t be so greedy as to ask for more than her marriage already gave her. It wouldn’t ever be like John and Mary had, but she had known that. You couldn’t know Sherlock Holmes, and expect him to give compliments like any one else. Truthfully, she ought to feel lucky that he didn’t deduce things about her and humiliate her, as he had a way of doing with nearly everyone else!

When they reached the venue, after a somewhat quiet carriage journey, the friends stepped out of the carriage. Molly had spent the journey in torments. Perhaps Sherlock thought she had been far too frivolous and wasteful in buying this particular gown. He must be disappointed in how she looked. He simply must be – or he would have made some even mildly positive remark to her. 

It was late, the performance must be due to start in one or two minutes, and most of the other carriages had moved off, their passengers having already entered the concert hall. His violin in hand, Sherlock indicated that he must use another entrance. 

“I need to use the stage door” he stated baldly, and then he was gone. 

Their seats were just one row back from the front of the stalls, so when the friends eventually settled after a detour for a small glass of wine from the bar, Molly had an excellent view and as the curtain was pulled open and the lights began to shine on the brass and wood and people of the orchestra, Molly could see Sherlock. As first violin he was to the left of the conductor. He sat, back straight, lean and so handsome in his black suit. Oh, but he was a beautiful man, thought Molly, and his physical beauty seemed to twist her insides.

“I’ll just give myself this evening”. Molly told herself. “Just this evening of loving him and dreaming that he could love me back. Just this evening. And then I will focus on work again”. 

As the music began, she watched him play and found at first the breath slightly knocked out of her. He was overwhelming. As he played, his carefully combed hair let loose one or two curls over his pale brow. This was simply unfair, thought Molly. Curls as well? 

About fifteen minutes into the piece, the music became so meltingly, swellingly, movingly beautiful that Molly felt sure the composer had reached into her heart and written what was there, and she couldn’t help a tear escaping her. In the next minute or two however she stopped thinking of her own feelings, as she became aware that Sherlock was unusually pale – white as a sheet. Because she did not look at anything or anyone else on the stage, she noticed that as minute upon minute passed, Sherlock looked paler and paler. 

Then sweat began to bead on his brow. To a casual watcher, to anyone else indeed, these changes would not have been noticeable and would certainly, even if noticed, have been put down to the physical exertion of playing. Molly distractedly pulled at her handkerchief in her lap as she watched. She couldn’t have said why, but she was uneasy. Sherlock took some deep breaths while he had a moment’s break in the performance as other instruments took the melody. He licked his fingers quickly as he had done each time he needed to turn the page of the music, and turned another page ready to take up his violin again. He grimaced very slightly and almost imperceptibly, leaned forward the tiniest amount. Now he was running with sweat. His fingers had remained on the music, as if he was frozen by a pain of some kind. 

And suddenly, Molly knew. He was becoming unwell, he was in pain. The entire reason for Sherlock being there was to find a criminal who had been targeting the person who should have been sitting where Sherlock was now…and suddenly Molly knew with certainty that Sherlock had put himself in this position to keep the client, Jonathan, from harm and to be in a position to intercept and stop that harm himself. For some reason, her brain kept re playing for her the movement of Sherlock’s fingers going to his lips to be slightly moistened so he could turn the page, then his fingers going the corner of the page of music, and then her thoughts caught up with her brain and she realised that each time he had turned a page of music, surely he had been taking in something that was affecting him. He was poisoned! What better way to harm Jonathan than to impregnate the very music he would be touching, and of course with Jonathan not in his seat but Sherlock there, now Sherlock was touching it….The sheet music itself was poisoned somehow! 

Molly stood, in front of everyone, stood up and called out as loud as she could, “Sherlock! Don’t touch the sheet music! The music is poisoned!”

Sherlock’s pale, wet, face turned toward her, and suddenly the auditorium was a chaotic cacophony of gasps and screams. John , Mary and Molly hurried from their seats, John running at top pelt and vaulting onto the stage to reach his friend. 

“Call the police!” Ordered John, reaching Sherlock, who had tried to stand and simply fallen to his knees. “and call an ambulance for this man.” He opened Sherlock’s collar, took his pulse, and shook his head. “Sherlock, do not give in. Do not give in, man!”.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock is dealing with what has happened to him and seeing Molly in a whole new light...

Molly stood rooted to the spot by the stage that she had rushed to; Mary put an arm round her waist. Thankfully John was, if not calm, able to take charge. Police arrived within minutes, but Molly began to realise that the provinces were not so advanced as London in terms of having an ambulance staff that could arrive in any reasonable time, so John and the police officers decided the carriage that had brought them would be the best and fastest way to get Sherlock to hospital. 

“Molly, I think you should go with Sherlock to the hospital. I will do what I can here - he will want this mystery solved. I will stay here and see what I can find in the way of any clues. Mary, my dear – will you go with Molly?”

Mary gave Molly’s hand a quick squeeze, but determinedly shook her head. 

“No indeed John – I will stay and help you. I know you’ll be fine to go to with Sherlock, won’t you Molly?” 

John Watson now knew better than to question his wife’s capacity to assist, so he simply nodded quickly. Sherlock had been conveyed to the Brighton Hospital before the hour was up, and by that time he had lost consciousness. 

Molly did not leave his side as he was taken to a ward and admitted by a rather fearsome Matron. He was pale, sweating, and coming in and out of consciousness repeatedly, as if he were going under the sea and coming up again for breath. When conscious he was delirious, and often doubled over in pain. Molly held on to his hand when he would let her, but his convulsions of pain meant that he would often let go. The ward Sister and another nurse arrived, and their first task was to instruct Molly to leave the ward.

Molly protested desperately, but the nurses were unmoved. Visiting times were between 10am and 12noon, and 2pm and 4pm. At no other times were visitors permitted. 

Molly couldn’t bear it. “But I cannot leave him! What if he dies and I am not here! I am a doctor myself and can help him!” Her words were increasingly unclear as tears overwhelmed her. The nurse was already leading her out however and Molly could do nothing but wait in the main corridor. However as soon as she saw a Doctor about to enter the ward, she hurried to intercept him and ensured that she told him all she could about the incident – that it appeared to be poison, probably powdered in order to be impregnated into the sheet music paper. Molly felt it was most likely to be arsenic, which could be easily powdered, readily obtainable, and would at those concentrations look and taste undetectable. The doctor thanked her, somewhat bemused by this beautiful, romantically dressed young lady who was so knowledgeable and capable. 

Molly passed a restless and uncomfortable night but she would not, could not leave the hospital. At around 7am, when the tea trolley was making its clattering way into the ward and life was returning to the corridors, the nurse who had shown Molly out last night poked her head out of the door and, catching Molly’s eye, waved her to come in. 

“It’s not really allowed” whispered the nurse to Molly “but since you’re here – are you Molly?”

Molly nodded.

“Well come in for a few minutes then” the nurse was still whispering at the door “He’s been asking for you. Well, all he has said all night is your name!”

This sent a little thrill through Molly, but she was far too interested in his welfare to really think about it at that moment. 

“But how is he?” Molly said desperately, trying to whisper “Is he any better? Does the doctor think it was arsenic?”

The nurse smiled a pleasant dimpled smile and said “He is still poorly, but he is out of danger. The doctor thinks he took in a very limited amount of arsenic, which has given him a lot of pain and sickness, but he will recover. Had he taken a larger dose it would have been different.”

Molly exhaled her unconsciously held breath and felt as if she might either faint or cry with the sheer joy of it. She rushed to Sherlock’s bedside and found him asleep, laying on his side. He was extremely pale. His hair had lost it’s careful control and was a mass of curls, tumbling over his pale forehead, making him look much younger. Molly was filled with a rush of love for him, and gratitude that he was going to live. Very, very quietly, so as not to disturb him, she leaned forward, and pressed the whisper of a kiss on his cheek. Molly’s heart nearly jumped out of her when she felt his hand curl round one of her wrists. Ah, not asleep then….Molly blushed furiously. 

Sherlock spoke, his voice husky but very much still strong. 

“Molly. I believe that you have re-paid a hundred fold, any small favour I may have done you when I married you so that you could work. You saved my life”. 

His eyes were bright and regarding her keenly despite his weakness. Molly was transfixed, and realised she had not answered, only returned his gaze, breathing a little fast. 

“How did you deduce it?” He asked her, sitting himself up slightly, but still holding her wrist. 

“You think it was the sheet music, then? You think I was right?” Molly sat on his bed. 

“Indeed I do. Tell Watson to direct the police towards the members of the Orchestra. Pay particular attention to anyone who has joined within recent months. This may be a case of unusual professional jealousy, or it may be deeper than that – perhaps a connection to Jonathan, an inheritance, something like that”. Sherlock was becoming hoarse already and breathed as if he had run up stairs. “But – how did you deduce it Molly?”

Molly hesitated. How could she admit that it was really through her obsessive admiration of him?

“Well, I think it was luck. I happened to be looking at you when you began to look unwell. You really did become extremely pale, you know. And I could see that you were in pain because I – well I suppose I know you well enough now to see when you are in pain...” 

Sherlock licked his lips, cleared his throat, obviously wanting to speak but in his weakness not finding it easy. 

Molly shook her head and said “Sherlock, don’t exert yourself. You must rest. I will talk to the Doctor about when you may leave. We’ll get you to the cottage”

Determined, Sherlock shook his head. “I owe you a debt of gratitude. You must allow me to thank you. You are – you are an exceptional woman. How you observed me and deduced what was happening… I do not believe I have met another woman who could ever have done as you have done.” 

And with that Sherlock allowed himself to rest back on the bed, and his eyes were closed instantly. Molly rose from his bed quietly and moved out of the ward, her heart as full as it had ever been. 

Sherlock was allowed home that day to the cottage, (indeed Molly felt she would hardly have liked to have been the Doctor who tried to keep Sherlock Holmes anywhere he did not want to be) and the four friends were re-united there. Sherlock was made to rest by orders of John, and despite Sherlock’s protestations that he must take some steps about solving the case, and loud grumbling that if he left it in the hands of the local police they would make a severe hash of things, he did in fact sleep for the rest of that day and night, only waking for Molly’s visits. She made him sip some broth, and drink some tea. He awoke enough to go along with these things but his stomach was still extremely tender and it gave him some pain, making him sweat and shake a little. Each time, Molly stayed with him until he was calm again and resting. 

After he last visit that evening, when she made to take the small tray with her and leave, Sherlock’s hand once more stole around her wrist, gently stopping her from going. She sat again on his bed beside him, realising that he was regarding her silently with dark eyes. 

“What is it Sherlock? Are you feeling alright?”

Sherlock kept his hand around her wrist. His thumb began to move, feather light, across the skin of her wrist. Then he moved her wrist, bringing it to his lips and kissing the inside of it. Molly’s breath came out in a hot puff before she could stop it. 

“I find myself having unaccustomed difficulty, Molly. I find myself – distracted. I try to reflect and deduce this case, but my mind won’t focus and I keep coming back to –“ he stopped. 

Weak though he was, Sherlock propped himself up on one elbow, and he released his hold on her wrist, reaching to put his arm around Molly, drawing her in toward him, enveloping her in a hug. His hand was in her hair at the back of her head, pulling her close, their cheeks pressed together. Molly closed her eyes, wanting to remember the feeling of his body against hers, blissfully savouring this moment of knowing that Sherlock was going to be alright. Unexpectedly, Sherlock was turning his head, gently, not pulling away, just turning slowly against her, and she felt the gentle press of his lips, first on the very side of hers, then he moved across a little further still without pulling away, and kissed her again, full on the lips this time, achingly gently and slowly. Molly sat like a statue, her hands still in her lap, shocked for a moment, then she was responding to his kiss, instinct taking over and no conscious thought involved. Sherlock pulled away slightly, regarding her intensely. Then he had to let his body settle back onto the bed, and he closed his eyes.   
Molly sat for a couple of seconds, looking at his beautiful face. Molly Hooper, she told herself, just calm down. He was simply emotional after what had happened. Molly couldn’t lie to herself however – just to have evoked an emotional response in the ice-cool, straight backed, serious Sherlock Holmes, thrilled her and made her yearn for him more than ever.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much to those who are reading and commenting! I so appreciate it. I'm so enjoying that Sherlock has got to try to learn to deal with the feels! More to come asap!


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock is recovering well and a happy day is spent in the cottage, but can things continue so smoothly? ;-)

Taking Sherlock’s suggestion of looking within the Orchestra, John and Mary set off the following day to join the local police to make further investigations. Sherlock was left to the care of Molly, who found herself unable to suppress her smiles at what a bad patient he was. She would have expected nothing less. Sherlock was not used to the feeling of not being in control. 

Sherlock wouldn’t stay in his room and instead he appeared in the parlour dressed in shirt and trousers, wearing his dark blue dressing gown over his shirt. Molly, who was sat in an armchair reading, couldn’t resist staring a little when he came in, looking handsome and without having slicked back his hair, which remained in rough curls around his beautiful face. He reclined his long body on the small settee. Sherlock seemed weighed down by some intense emotion a great deal of the time, moodily staring at Molly as if trying to deduce something about her that he just couldn’t quite see. He grumbled that he was hungry, so Molly brought him some soup, which he then did not touch. He grumbled that he was bored, so she brought him some books, which he read one or two pages of, then discarded with a theatrical sigh. As the day wore on Molly realised that his natural strength and health meant that he was actually recovering very well. He was clearly a little restless and would no doubt be ready to be back to normal the following day. 

Molly preferred grumbling Sherlock to the disconcerting pierce of his moody gaze, so she tried to keep things light by speaking of things that she knew would either annoy or bore him, rather than allow his intense emotions, whatever they might be, to overtake him. At one point she looked out of the window into her little cottage garden, and began wondering aloud about one day making a vegetable garden there, if ever she had more time to spend at the cottage. 

“Oh”, went on Molly, thinking she might bore him to some more sleep, which would do him good, “I would like to get those beehives going again one day. They haven’t been used in many a year. I have no idea how to keep bees, my aunt used to do that, but it can’t be difficult I suppose. I used to love watching her take out the honey when I was a child. “

Sherlock was surprisingly animated by this idea, and stirred himself, crossing the room, hands in trouser pockets. He stood close beside her, following her eyes and looking out of the window at the garden. He proceeded to tell her that actually bee keeping was quite the science, and an interesting nature study to boot. He knew quite a lot about it. Molly smiled at his enthusiasm for something so seemingly dull. It was so far removed from how he spent his time in London. 

Then he turned his head and looked down at her, that intense look clouding his eyes again. Molly couldn’t keep his gaze. She smiled awkwardly, and her eyes flicked to look out of the window again. Molly found herself painfully aware of Sherlock beside her. His physical presence had lost none of its power where she was concerned. She found herself breathing a little faster when an image of their kisses yesterday flashed across her mind. Molly looked down at the floor momentarily, her mind seeming determined to torture her, making her think of putting her hands on his broad shoulders, pulling his mouth to her.

And then almost as if he had read her mind – or as if he had he somehow deduced what she was thinking –Sherlock’s hand was under her chin, gently pushing her face up toward his, and he was pulling her towards him, his mouth was so near hers, and his breathing was laboured…

“Dear God, Molly….” He made as if to say more, but then somehow he was kissing her again and this time it was not gentle but it was firm and demanding, and Molly found herself responding instinctively, opening her mouth to him. When Sherlock’s tongue flicked across her lips and then pushed inside her mouth, Molly, experiencing a sudden introduction to a height of arousal that she had not known existed, reactively gripped his shoulders and let out a kind of ‘hmfff’ noise before she could think. This seemed to inflame Sherlock, he groaned into her mouth, and his hands gripped her waist, his mouth pulling away from hers for a moment only to instantly land on her neck, and when she felt an almost biting pressure there Molly actually thought her legs might buckle underneath her. 

Suddenly the front door to the cottage rattled with the return of John and Mary. Molly and Sherlock sprang apart, both breathing heavily. Mary’s gimlet eyes seemed to know all, instantly, and Molly was grateful that she gave them a moment to collect themselves, chattering about their trip, and calling the maid for some tea to be served. Molly stood rooted to the spot, stupidly, but Sherlock had collected himself, moving to sit on the settee, drawing his dressing gown around himself. 

Molly made herself take a seat and ask how the Watsons had fared with their investigations. Sadly, John and Mary had returned from Brighton without any real leads as to who the poisoner had been. Sherlock seemed to be a mixture of irritated and vindicated by this news, as the friends sat together with a pot of tea by the fire. Molly couldn’t help looking at Sherlock, but each time her eyes found his face, he was not looking at her. 

The peace of the cottage was soon disturbed by loud knocking on the door, and the delivery of a letter addressed to Sherlock. Molly handed him the missive, and he opened it without hurry. When he read it however, he sat up instantly, his back straight, a frown on his face, staring at the letter fixedly. 

Mary and Molly shared a look, but it was John who spoke first. 

“What is it Holmes? What has happened?”

Sherlock stood up, as straight as a tree, and held his arm out so John could take the letter, staring straight ahead, not looking at him. 

“I have been an even worse fool than I had so far allowed myself to believe. “

John read out the contents of the letter.

“Dear Mr Holmes,   
News of your marriage has travelled fast, my friend. I will admit to being rather shocked and very intrigued that the great detective, the reasoning machine, Sherlock Holmes, should have submitted to the yoke of matrimony. I scarcely knew whether to credit its veracity. However, it has been confirmed to me by impeccable sources, so I decided to give you and your marriage a little test of my own devising.  
You have disappointed me sorely - you have spectacularly failed my little test. Who would have thought that the great Sherlock Holmes would be so easy to manipulate? But showing off on the stage in front of your sweet little bride, in her very becoming green gown, was all that mattered to you, and you couldn’t even deduce my easy little plot to bring you down to Brighton. Oh, I wish I could be there in your little honeymoon cottage, to see you grapple with the fact that you were only saved by the brains of your really delicious little wife.   
I will so look forward to further involvement with you both.  
JM”

Mary said to Sherlock “So whoever this JM is – he was there, then. At the concert. He must have been there – he mentions what Molly was wearing”. 

Molly looked between Mary and Sherlock, pale and feeling rather shaky. She hated what the contents of that letter would be doing to Sherlock. 

“Moriarty”. John said, looking intently at Sherlock. 

Sherlock nodded, still standing stock still and now staring off out of the window of the cottage. 

“Moriarty”. He confirmed. 

John saw Molly’s confusion, and hastened to explain. “We believe that Moriarty is a criminal of the worst order. Holmes has been hearing things against him for a little while and been putting a picture together of his likely misdeeds, but this is the first time that Moriarty has made…contact.”

Sherlock turned to John and Mary. Quietly, he asked “When you were in Brighton today investigating, did you by any chance see my client – Jonathan?”

Mary shook her head quickly. “No – John and I both remarked on that – he hadn’t been at the Theatre all day, and the Orchestra manager had not seen nor heard from him. We assumed that he was a little upset by events.”

Sherlock let out an almost imperceptible breath. 

“No. I think you will find that Jonathan has left the orchestra and is very much uncontactable and probably on his way very far from Brighton, paid off handsomely for his work for Moriarty. If the plan was to humiliate me then I would say Moriarty has achieved his aim.”

Molly’s heart ached for Sherlock. She felt desperate to say something, anything of comfort but knew Sherlock well enough to know that this was a blow from which he wouldn’t rally quickly and that he would be very unlikely to be easily comforted. With a little surprise, she realised that Sherlock had turned to her. 

“Molly, I want you to know that I will do everything in my power to ensure your safety from this man. I do not wish you to be troubled by the implied threat in this letter”. His voice was low, vibrating though her. His hands were down by his side, his fingers compulsively clenching and unclenching. 

Molly stepped towards him, instinctively reaching for one of his hands, but he turned from her and walked to the fireplace, staring into it morosely. Molly blushed, struck by his rejection, but understanding his turmoil. Mary’s gentle hand was on hers then, and in a deliberately bright tone belied by her serious expression, Mary told Molly that Sherlock could indulge in a fit of the sullens if he wanted, but they still needed to eat, and as it was the maid’s night off, she and Molly should repair to the kitchen, relieve the maid of her duties, and make what they could of a meal. 

Molly went with Mary, realising that nothing could be gained by staying. Sherlock was clearly not in a way to communicate with anyone, although she hoped that perhaps John could manage to encourage Sherlock to bear up.

Mary bustled around the little kitchen, gathering together some cold meats, cheeses, pickles and bread, making up a light supper for them, and trying to help Molly to calm a little.   
"Mary, I was so happy to have helped Sherlock. But now it’s made him feel a failure! He is so angry – I can tell!” Molly clattered the plates distractedly as she placed them on the table. 

Mary smiled a slight smile, with that familiar little spark in her eye. 

“Hmm, Sherlock Holmes is not used to failure, that is for sure. But John assures me that it does on occasion, happen. I for one don’t think it will do him too much harm! Try not to worry about him, Molly”. 

Molly paced a little wildly. “But last night, and today -” She caught herself, and stopped. 

Mary, never missing a thing when it could relate to interesting events between her friends, instantly skewered Molly with a sharp look.

“I thought so, Molly……what happened?”

Molly sat herself in the little chair by the range. “Last night, just before I left him for the night, he kissed me.” Molly couldn’t help but smile a little at Mary’s excitement at this development, and she went on, whispering so that Mary leaned in to hear. “He kissed me again today, and Mary I have not much experience to go on, but I do not think that kissing gets any better than that! But now that awful letter will make him think what a mistake he has made in marrying me. He will blame me for all this, and he’ll be right!” 

Mary’s eyes flashed with a kind of ‘I knew it’ expression, but she reined herself in, and though she was not entirely convinced herself, she told Molly in a very authoritative tone  
“Nonsense, Molly. This is just a little hiccup and Sherlock will not blame you for anything. “

The evening was a tortuous one for Molly. John and Mary did their bit to keep the evening sociable, but Molly was quiet, worrying about Sherlock’s state of mind and feeling no small amount of guilt that what had happened to Sherlock was the fault of their marriage. Sherlock sat mostly staring into the fire, his fingers steepled below his chin. 

Mary and Molly cleared away the plates and the glasses at the end of the evening, and as Mary busied herself in the kitchen, kindly not wanting to leave any extra work for the maid in the morning, Molly slowly approached the parlour door, ready to go up to bed. 

What she heard as she came up next to the door stopped her in her tracks. 

She heard Sherlock let out an exasperated groan and then heard his voice. 

“Damn it John! Damn it. What’s happened to me? I blindly walk in to being poisoned by Moriarty without even spotting anything. ANYTHING, John!”

Molly realised that due to the slatted nature of the cottage’s parlour door, she could just see into the room through a gap, if she pressed close. She saw Sherlock standing, and John sitting on the edge of the chair, looking up at his friend. 

Sherlock was becoming more passionate and angry. He stopped pacing, and Molly saw him turn to John, his face tortured, saying desperately

“I should never have contracted this marriage. And look at me again today, hanging around this damn cottage watching her all day instead of - she distracts me John! I can’t – she’s too distracting!”

Molly’s heart lurched within her, and her unhappiness knew no bounds. To know he regretted their marriage already was too painful. To know that he blamed her for distracting him, for making him less Sherlock somehow, was a blow that she could not bear. 

Molly knew instantly that it was up to her to deal with the situation. As a gentleman and a man of honour, Sherlock would never push her away in any formal way. She must do it herself. In the space of a few deep breaths outside that Parlour door, Molly had decided that the moment she could, the moment she was settled in her new post, she would move herself out of Sherlock’s home and out of his life. It was the kindest thing she could do for him. People now believed in their marriage and it would be up to her to maintain the fiction, and she would work very hard at doing that, so that Sherlock could be rid of the difficulties she caused him, and could resume his old life.   
Molly turned away from the door, unable to bear to hear more, and returned to the kitchen to assist Mary with the last of the clearing up, trying to stop the tears that kept threatening.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As usual thanks so much to those reading, commenting and leaving Kudos. It's a team effort now as I'm sure I wouldn't have continued with this story without the support, thank you so much!


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The last chapter of my first multi chapter fan fic is here already! The game is afoot, and Sherlock is back on form...

The four friends travelled back to London the next day, and Molly had found the journey particularly trying. Sherlock was brooding and seemed to be ruminating, and Molly felt very small as she felt sure that he was thinking only of the problems she had caused him since their marriage. And yet, strangely, when Sherlock did speak it was always to Molly, always to check on her comfort. When Molly got up at the end of their journey and the train made an unexpected lurch, Sherlock’s strong hands were instantly there at her waist, steadying her, his face angled down to hers, his voice a gentle rumble, saying “Alright - I’ve got you”. As usual when they were close enough to touch, Molly’s breathing constricted, and embarrassingly, her eyes went to his lips before she managed to extricate herself from his arms, hurrying off the train as fast as she could. 

Molly was close to tears once they had dropped off John and Mary, and arrived back at Baker Street. The hope with which she had gone into marriage with Sherlock was shattered and all that had happened was that she had now even more love and admiration for him and the memory of a kiss which only served to make her want him more. Arriving back at Baker Street and being welcomed warmly by dear Mrs Hudson, and ushered into Sherlock’s living room with a fire leaping in the grate, was too much for Molly and she made her excuses to Sherlock and Mrs Hudson, saying that she had a headache and would rest in her room. 

Molly realised that, it being Friday, that meant that there were now only four days until she started back at Bart’s. And really, the last commitment that they had was the party at Bart’s tomorrow evening.

Molly spent the rest of the day and evening in her room. Mrs Hudson came in during the late evening, with some warm milk and biscuits for Molly, asking if she were alright, and after being reassured, left Molly alone, and Molly spent a fairly restless night. 

Saturday morning arrived a very foggy one – not quite a pea souper, but a real London fog. As Molly came downstairs, she heard Sherlock playing the violin. Vivaldi – Autumn…very appropriate, Molly thought, as the weather was really starting to draw in now. Feeling suddenly incredibly awkward about seeing Sherlock, Molly hesitated at the bottom of the stairs leading from her room. But before she could even take a step, the door to the living room was opened, and Sherlock stood there, violin and bow in one hand, door in the other, looking imperious and utterly devastating in his customary white shirt, black waistcoat and trousers topped with his blue dressing gown. Oh, but he was a beautiful man. 

He said “Come in then, Molly! Breakfast is waiting!” He showed no awkwardness, in fact his face was relaxed and he was full of energy. Molly slowly walked into the room, unable to think quickly enough to excuse herself. 

Mrs Hudson had provided tea and toast with marmalade, Molly’s preferred breakfast, and had laid it on the dining table. As Molly sat at the table, Sherlock put his violin and bow down and came to sit with her. He looked at her incredibly closely as if trying to deduce her. 

“Are you well, Molly? I missed your company last evening”. 

Molly’s eyes flicked up in surprise. “Oh, I am fine Sherlock, really. Just a headache was all”. 

Sherlock’s green (today – why did they change? Just to tease her?) eyes narrowed a little and he still looked at her just as keenly. 

“Hmm, are you sure? You are not concerned with the contents of that damn letter from Moriarty?” Molly shook her head, but Sherlock was already leaning forward, taking her hand with one of his. “Because if you are worrying about it you must stop – I will keep you safe, Molly”. His thumb was stroking across the skin on the side of Molly’s hand. 

Once again, Molly shook her head. “No, really Sherlock, I am not worried. I just had a headache”. 

Sherlock still sat leaning forward. “Then you do trust me?”

Without thinking, Molly answered honestly. “Of course I do, Sherlock! More than anyone”. 

“Good” Sherlock sat back. “I will be out today. I have a suspicion about Moriarty and someone who I believe may be an accomplice in some way, and I need to make enquiries. But don’t worry – I will be back in time to take you to the party at Bart’s”. 

“Thank-you Sherlock. Be careful today….and, well – enjoy yourself!” Molly smiled. 

“Ha! How well you know me Molly. Yes – the game is afoot!” Sherlock stood, obviously keen to get going, and he was hatted and jacketed in a moment or two, and bid Molly goodbye, obviously full of inspiration and purpose. 

Sherlock had still not returned by the time Molly went up to her room to dress for the party, but by the time she was done and re-entered the living room downstairs, Sherlock was there, and immediately crossed the room, appearing to have been pacing the room waiting for her. Molly did not have a great range of gowns suitable for evening parties, but she would have chosen the green velvet gown anyway – she loved it, Sherlock had bought it, and it seemed suitable although truly bittersweet to wear it on what was their last evening out together. 

He approached her, hands in pockets, back straight, as was his usual bearing. He looked down at her, and he stepped very, very close to her, so that Molly was having to really look up at him. 

“Molly…I would like to make up for the previous occasion when I saw you in this dress. I fear I don’t always remember to put into words the thoughts that are in my head. You look beautiful, Molly”. 

Molly smiled in reply, and was about to speak when Sherlock reached into his jacket pocket, bringing out a long, dark blue leather box with gold piping – a jewellery box, Molly knew instantly. He opened it, and said “I took the liberty of buying this for you. I noticed that you wore gold jewellery with this gown last time. If you don’t like it, don’t worry, I shan't be offended – I am not accustomed to choosing jewellery!“

Molly stopped him, picking up the bracelet and shaking her head over its beauty. It was a simple gold charm bracelet, with just one charm – a diamond encrusted bee. 

“It’s beautiful Sherlock! But it’s too much – really! You had no need to buy me anything”. 

Sherlock took the bracelet, and she held out her wrist for him to put in on. Instead of putting it straight on, he took her hand and led her over to sit on the settee at the side of the room. His knee pressed against hers, as he fastened the bracelet onto Molly’s wrist, and then gently ran his finger over the bee as it rested on her upturned wrist. 

“Ah – I really did need to Molly…well, I wanted to”. And with that, he raised her wrist to his beautiful mouth, and he kissed it. 

Molly tried to get her breathing under control. 

Sherlock lowered her wrist and looked again at the charm. “I thought you might like a bee charm – it reminded me of the bee hives at your cottage” Sherlock’s voice dropped lower “It reminds me of kissing you by that window, looking out at the garden and the beehives”. 

Sherlock was so close to her and being fixed in his gaze Molly felt unable to move or speak, not able to tear her eyes away from his intense look. His eyes strayed down to her lips, and she knew he was about to kiss her. It flashed across her mind how ironic this was; perhaps men could separate the physical and the emotional? Why would he kiss her, when he had said himself he regretted their marriage? 

At that moment there came loud knocking on the main door of 221b, and John and Mary Watson’s voices could be heard entering the hallway. Molly could not decide if it were the very worst or the very best timing of any event in her life. 

Sherlock gave a short huff of laughter, and they stood. He briefly stroked a finger across her cheek, and in his deepest rumble of a voice, he said “Molly Hooper, what am I to do with you?” and Molly’s breathing hastened again, because in that moment Sherlock had a look about him that told her very strongly that he knew exactly what he wanted to do with her. There was something seductive too, in his use of her maiden name, but she could not have explained why that was. 

Mary and John were on fine form that evening, and John had bought some Champagne for them to toast Molly’s new post with, before they left for the party. Thankful for her friends’ kindness, Molly was nonetheless glad when all were ready to depart, and couldn’t help wishing that this evening were already over, and she could wrench herself away from this tortuous situation. 

Within a minute the four of them were ensconced in the carriage and on their way to the party. Molly had been hoping to spend an unremarkable hour at the party and then to leave, not wanting to expect too much of Sherlock in terms of socialising, which she knew was not his natural milieu.

However the evening could not be said to be unremarkable in any way. Dr Moran had undersold what kind of affair it was when he described it as a drinks party, it was in fact more like a ball, with a small band of musicians and a room clear for dancing as well as a large room leading off where there were drinks and a fine array of foods. Mary Watson was delighted that there would be music, and threatened her husband that he must partner her when the dancing began. John, Molly noticed with a smile, was particularly loving and attentive to Mary this evening, his arm around her waist, and his manner solicitous. Almost as soon as they had said their hello’s to important people like the Woodhouses, John gently propelled Mary to a cosy corner of the room, where there was a large settee surrounded by palm plants. As she watched Mary’s face smiling up at John, Molly suddenly wondered – was this extra tenderness John was showing, indicative of a happy announcement to be made? Oh, she hoped so for her dear friends. She turned to Sherlock, instinctively looking to pass on her thoughts to him, but stopped, biting her lip and looking away. She really needed to distance herself but oh, it was so hard to do. Sherlock’s eyebrow raised very slightly, clearly wondering what his wife had been about to say, but he did not ask her. 

The next surprising feature of the evening was how kind Dr Moran was to Molly. He greeted her as soon as she and Sherlock entered, saying that he had been hoping to catch her. He wanted to share with her that while she had been away, he had secured a most prestigious research project, and he was very keen to ask for her help and assistance. Indeed he was relying upon it, and he intended to share the credit when the paper was eventually published. Molly thanked him sincerely, knowing how important it was for her to start to build her reputation as Dr Molly Holmes. Sherlock stood stock still beside her, unmoved, but Molly wanted him to understand how gratifying this was, so she turned to him with her natural, pleased, wide smile and explained

“Dr Moran is doing me such a kindness, Sherlock – this will be such a boost to my reputation when I start work again. I will need some published work behind me again”.  
Sherlock coldly inclined his head toward Dr Moran. 

From that moment, every time Molly glanced around the room to locate her husband, she was rewarded with the sight of him rudely ignoring everyone else in the room, leaning up against the wall, hands in pockets, fairly glowering in her direction. He looked in fact like a jealous lover, however Molly knew better, and her heart sank at how he must hate this evening, what a duty it was, and how she was still distracting him from his own life. 

Sherlock fairly haunted Molly’s steps, for all the world as if he were a possessive husband. Even when Molly excused herself to go to the ladies room, he stood as if he would have followed her, but stopped himself and instead leant in to speak in a whisper next to her ear. 

“Molly – I should have said something earlier perhaps. When you return, I need to speak with you about Dr Moran. “At the same time, Sherlock seemed to be waving over at Mary Watson, who made her way to them, intrigued. “Mary, I think you ladies usually go to the powder room in two’s, isn’t that the usual form? I believe Molly would like your company”.  
Molly rolled her eyes, finding Sherlock’s treatment of her this evening really quite bizarre, but Mary took her hand, smiling, and they moved off together. 

The ladies room, perhaps because this hospital was still a bastion of maleness in terms of staff, was down two flights of stairs. As they reached the top of the stairs, Mary Watson suddenly stopped, took her hand from Molly’s and made a strange strangled noise. Her hand went low down on her stomach, and she looked with surprised eyes at Molly. 

“Oh!” She grimaced. 

Molly spied a small wooden bench next the wall, and propelled Mary to it instantly. 

“How far along are you, Mary?”

“Just over three months”. Mary answered. Then her face twisted a little. “We were going to tell you and Sherlock this evening! Oh dear. Do you think I’m losing the baby?”

“I’m no expert Mary, but the likelihood of problems after three months is much lessened, that I do know. Now – have you had any similar pain before? Any bleeding?”

“No, Molly – nothing up to now. Not even any sickness to speak of!”

“Good. Breathe some deep, slow breaths.” Molly felt that the likelihood of any serious problem was low. Pregnant women did get aches and pains, that she knew. The most important thing was for Mary not to worry. 

Within a minute, Mary was calmer and she said to Molly “The pain is quite gone Molly! It was just one severe sort of stabbing pain, and now it’s gone completely. “ She smiled, hesitantly but hopefully. 

“I’m sure you’ll be fine, Mary. I will go to the ladies room, you sit here and concentrate on calm breathing, and then we’ll go back in. I do think you and John ought to go home, rest would be sensible. And I’m sure Sherlock will be glad to get out of this place”. Mary nodded a smiling assent to this, and Molly hurried down the stairs. 

When she came out of the ladies room, stangely, Molly literally bumped into Dr Moran, walking straight into him. 

“Oh, Forgive me!” Molly began, but before she could take one more breath, he reached round her with one arm, trapping both of hers against her sides, and she smelled a subtle sweet but chemical smell, and less than a fraction of a second her brain was telling her it was chloroform, and he was bringing his hand up and trying to put a chloroform soaked cloth over her face. Molly let out piercing scream but only got one second of it out before the cloth was over her mouth. She desperately tried to wrench her body away from Moran, but the chloroform was too much and she began to lose consciousness.

The next thing Molly knew, she was waking in a hospital bed. She blinked her sore eyes once or twice. Still in Bart’s. She recognised the ward. Respiratory. Precautionary, after her ingestion of – oh my goodness, Dr Moran! She sat up, and only then did she see Mary Watson beside her.

“Mary! What on earth happened? Why did Dr Moran do that? How did I get here?”

“Well, you have your obsessive husband to thank, Molly. As soon as you and I had gone off to go to the ladies room, he took another set of steps down, and was watching for us. He saw Moran attack you with the chloroform and I don’t know exactly what he did to Moran, but suffice it to say that Moran is also on a ward in this hospital, under police guard, but not in a position to go anywhere! Sherlock is talking to Inspector Lestrade right now".

Molly tried to take all this in. 

“But Mary, why did Dr Moran – I mean, I just don’t understand why?”

“Well, apparently Sherlock had spent the day today before the party making enquiries and he had established a link between Moran and Moriarty. He believed that Moran would try to get to him through you. Perhaps kidnap you, knowing that Sherlock would be desperate to find you, hoping that Sherlock would make errors, be more vulnerable and easier to overpower because he was emotionally involved instead of just being the detective. I think Moriarty was using Moran to try to capitalise on what he sees as Sherlock’s weakness where you are concerned”. 

Molly nodded, sadly. She lay back for a moment, deciding. The clock on the wall of the ward told her that it was past midnight, a new day. She needed to start this day by finally sorting out her marriage. She knew now for sure, that she would far rather lose her job than know that Sherlock was harmed on her account, which he surely would be if Moriarty continued in this vein. She looked at Mary, and really thought about throwing herself on Mary’s good nature, asking to be taken somewhere, hidden, just running away from Sherlock, leaving as she had decided to when she heard Sherlock bemoan their marriage while they were at the cottage. 

But looking at Mary, Molly smiled. Mary had something far more important to take care of now, she did not need any more worry, she needed to be able to go home and take care of herself. Molly swallowed hard. She wasn't going to run away from Sherlock like she was some maiden in a trashy novella. She had been ‘Hooper’ and she had dealt with many a tough situation. She could take the harder road, and talk to Sherlock in a rational way, about bringing their arrangement to an end. He would certainly see that his own life was worth more than a job at Bart’s. They had shared some times together which would always be precious to Molly, and his friendship was worth infinitely more to her than just running off from him. 

After taking a moment to check on Mary's welfare and ensuring that she had experienced no more pain or difficulty, and being reassured on that score, Molly discharged herself from the ward, telling the nurse that she would answer for it next week to the respiratory doctor if necessary but that she was fine. She and Mary made their way back upstairs to the now quiet, but still candle-lit party room, to await the return of Sherlock and John when they were finished with Inspector Lestrade. Clearly the party had broken up in light of Dr Moran’s exposure, but the room was a pleasant place to wait. 

In the event the two friends did not have to wait more than a few minutes and both ladies shared a very quick smile when they saw Sherlock and John fairly running into the room, their jackets flapping around them, looking heroic. 

John scooped Mary up for a kiss, pulling him close to her, and saying “Well, Mrs Watson, that constitutes enough excitement for one night, time to get you home, I think?” Mary smiled and they made to leave, but Mary stopped, aware that Sherlock and Molly were standing stock still, just looking at each other. 

“Sherlock, Molly – shall we go?”

Molly took the initiative. Nerves were making her feel a little faint, but she knew now was the time. She shook her head, saying to Mary “I need to speak with Sherlock, Mary. You and John take the carriage. We find our own way – “ and she stopped, realising that she had been about to say ‘home’. Molly bit her lip. Baker Street wasn’t to be her home any more. 

Sherlock didn’t take his eyes from Molly, but he said “Thank you, John, Mary. Goodnight”. 

Molly smiled a little wistfully at her dear friends, and they left the room. She caught Sherlock’s eye for a second, and felt a sharp pain in her chest. She looked away, focussing on the pattern on the floor. Parquet? She realised she was holding her hands so tightly fisted that her fingers hurt. She took a deep breath – and then Sherlock spoke. 

“Let me save you the trouble, Molly. You wish our marriage to be ended, because you feel that since my being married came to be known, that I have been targeted because of it. You feel that your post at Bart’s is not important enough for us to remain married, at continued risk to me, particularly from Moriarty. Have I deduced correctly?” He had moved closer to her all the while, and now he was looking down his nose at her, in that way he had, straight backed and forbidding. 

Molly couldn’t help the tears that fell from her eyes, but she didn’t give in to them. 

She nodded and her voice was strong when she said “Exactly right. I should have known you would deduce me. I am determined that our experiment with marriage must be ended, Sherlock. It was a noble endeavour on your part, but it simply is not worth it. How could I live, knowing that something had happened to you, on my account?”

Sherlock took a step closer. They were almost pressed against each other now, and Molly fought the need to step back from him. 

“You are selfless as ever, Molly. You completely forget to add that you yourself, as evidenced this evening, are at risk of harm also”. 

“I don’t count!” Molly simply said. “I mean, it is you who did this for me, and it’s too much. It isn’t worth it!” Molly steeled herself to make the clinching argument. “I heard you, Sherlock, at the cottage. I know you regret marrying me, and that being married has been nothing but a distraction. Please don’t be gentlemanly about it. Just accept that we must end things between us.” 

Sherlock’s head lifted at that, and he looked shocked. 

“You do count. Molly, you count to me. Clearly, you did not overhear the whole of that conversation with John. If you had, you wouldn’t be saying such tomfool stuff to me”. 

Sherlock’s arm snaked round Molly’s waist, and he pulled her close to him, so they were touching from chest down. He bent his head toward her, and said in his lowest tones  
“Do you want to know what else I said to John, Molly?” At Molly’s mute nod, he said “I told John that I had realised that the only reason I was distracted was that I had never been in love before”.

Molly’s eyes widened, and she let out a burst of unconsciously held breath.

Sherlock went on, “I told John that you had stunned me. Your beauty distracted me. Your skill at your job. You deducing that situation in Brighton, and speaking up in front of a whole theatre full of people in order to save me….You, becoming a pathologist, in what is still a man’s world…..” Sherlock stopped speaking, and his breathing betrayed him just as much as Molly’s did, as he gently caressed her neck and shoulder. “I told John that I had to work out if you would want a real marriage with me, because I couldn’t stand living with you in my house and not being able to touch you….I was in agonies at the cottage, and on the journey home, because I did not know how to tell you what I wanted, without putting you in a potentially impossible situation. I was your husband and your job depended on that, I didn’t want you to feel that you couldn’t say no to me”. 

Sherlock leaned closer, wrapping his arms tight around her waist, his forehead leaning on hers. His voice was a deep rumble. “I think I would have been paralysed as to what to do, save for Mary Watson's telling me this evening that she believes you do love me....you do want to be with me.....Molly - will you stay with me? Because I know I have made a sorry show so far, but I do love you. Will you let me have a chance to start to show you that I can be a real husband to you?”

His words, his deep voice, sent the most intense thrill through Molly’s body and mind. As usual he managed to take her breath away. 

Molly nodded almost imperceptibly and slowly, not taking her forehead from his. When Sherlock realised she was assenting, she was agreeing to remain his wife, his breath came out in a ragged almost moan of relief. His hands gripped the sides of her waist, hard. He bent his head down to find her lips with his. Molly returned the kiss with all the pent up desperation for him that had been suppressed in her since that first time she saw him. Her arms were around his neck, pulling him to her. Their kiss was like a flame starting at the corner of a piece of paper, and suddenly moving across, consuming the whole in an instant. Her response seemed to incite him, and when his kiss deepened and his tongue slipped onto and then past her lips, touching hers, Molly couldn’t help but let out a strange sort of mewling sound, forced out of her by the sharp stab of pleasure that seemed to run through her whole body. At the sound, Sherlock’s own breathing became louder and he broke off from the kiss, having to breathe freely for a moment. 

“God, Molly. You make me feel – I think it would shock you if I told you how you make me feel. What you make me want.”

Another shot of desire shot powerfully through Molly at his words. Their faces were so close, but she could see his beautiful face, his eyes dark with blown pupils. Molly held on to his forearms, her hands feeling very small on his larger limbs. She smiled. 

“I am perhaps not so easily shocked as you might think, Sherlock”. She said, quietly. 

At this, Sherlock groaned, and searched out her lips again, and this time his hands plunged into her hair, over her back, over her shoulders, pulling down the straps of her gown. When Sherlock’s head dipped and his mouth began to kiss, almost bite, the skin at her neck, her bosom, Molly realised that she was soon going to be unable to stop him, and this was a public place. She reluctantly, but firmly, pushed at his chest, and they moved apart, panting a little. 

“You are driving me insane, Molly. God! Feel what you make me feel”. Sherlock whispered in her ear, and gently took her wrist in his hand, placing it at the hardness in his groin, which Molly had been thrillingly conscious of even through her gown when they were pressed together. Molly couldn’t stop a groan escaping her as she felt how much he wanted her. 

Sherlock made an unintelligible noise against her cheek, then he pulled away, and took her hand. 

“I need to get you home, Molly Hooper. I need to get you home, now”. 

The extreme lateness of the hour meant that when the two of them finally left Bart’s, all carriages had departed, and there were no passing Hansoms to be hailed. 

“Damnation!” cursed Sherlock, under his breath as he stood at the front of Bart’s, searching in vain for a cab. 

Molly took his hand in hers, and said “There’s no fog. A walk through London, back to Baker Street, will be fine, Sherlock”. 

Sherlock huffed, but showed his assent by setting off contentedly enough. 

Molly couldn’t help asking him, now that she’d calmed down a little “But Sherlock, what about Moriarty – or anyone else, who decides that you or I are to be targeted because of what we mean to each other? That risk hasn’t gone away”. 

Sherlock answered instantly “I know that will be a risk, Molly, and believe me I have agonised about it. But I am more prepared for it now. We can’t be terrorised, not live our lives because of others. I will keep you safe – you are under my protection. And I already know that I am under yours, don’t I – after Brighton?” 

Molly leaned her head against his shoulder as they walked. This didn’t seem real. 

Sherlock looked down at her. He seemed to be considering something. 

“Hmm. Baker Street is all very well for tonight” he said “but I think I owe you a proper honeymoon, Molly. How about we set off tomorrow for some time – alone – at the cottage?”  
Molly knew she was blushing, but she agreed that would be her idea of a lovely honeymoon. As they walked, they happily spoke of their plans. Sherlock said he would spend some time getting the beehives going. Molly planned to plant some vegetables. They admitted that they might need a caretaker to see to things in their absence, as work would keep them much in London, but both were reluctant to let their plans for the cottage go. 

Sherlock instructed Molly in his high handed way that she must pack light tomorrow. 

“Although - definitely bring this gown, Molly”. Said Sherlock, looking down at her intensely. 

“Yes, of course I can bring it. You really like this gown, then?”

Sherlock stopped walking, his hand leaving hers and moving up to caress the nape of her neck. A breaking wave of goosebumps splashed across her skin at his intimate touch. His head was lowered toward her, and his voice was low. 

“I like it very much, Molly. And I like you in it very much. Your shoulders….your neck”…..Molly couldn’t control her breathing. Sherlock raised his head. 

“Molly, we need to get ourselves to Baker Street before I cause a scandal by being unable to keep my hands off you in the street”. 

Molly tried to keep herself in check. They started walking again, and she said with a smile, “I didn’t think you would be the sort to mind about scandals. I always imagined Sherlock Holmes subscribing to the Oscar Wilde approach – the only thing worse than being talked about, is not being talked about?”. 

Sherlock stopped again, his arm pulling her to his side. He said, rumbling close to her ear, “I prefer his quotation - ‘The only way to get rid of a temptation is to yield to it”. He leaned forward and kissed her, making Molly squeal with surprise. 

A chorus of wolf whistles from a couple of passing drunken lads brought Sherlock back to himself, and they continued walking, though he kept his arm around her waist. 

Molly thought to herself – I must remember this moment. Now, when I am perfectly, completely happy. She leant her head on his shoulder for a moment, and Sherlock gave an answering squeeze to her waist. He looked down at her and gave the slightest nod. “I know.” He said. 

Molly smiled to herself. There is hope for you yet, Sherlock Holmes. You understand emotions so much better than you have allowed yourself to believe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted to say a genuine and heartfelt thankyou - thanks so, so much to everyone who has read, commented and left kudos, you are all lovely and it's honestly been great to share this little story with like minded Sherlockians. 
> 
> I thought of doing an epilogue after this, Sherlock and Molly on honeymoon, but I really don't think I can write smut, and I don't think Sherlock has much else planned for the honeymoon :-D So I think this is it.


End file.
